Out With It
by Caster
Summary: The Miami CSI team is assigned a case that jets them to Las Vegas... where Ryan inadvertently tumbles into love with Greg Sanders. [RyanxGreg] [NickxEric]
1. Long Live Las Vegas

A/T: -blows dust off keyboard and rubs hands together like a mad scientist plotting world domination- Although I haven't written in a while, a killer plot bunny with fangs and knives for ears attacked me while I was stuck in a confined space with my family. My parents swear they never saw a thing, but that remains to be seen. After all, how does one miss the assault of insistent plot bunnies?

Please note that I have a very feeble (i.e. practically nonexistent) grasp of jurisdiction laws, so there might be a few plot holes that I'm unaware of. Nick/Greg is #1! However, this idea hit me like lightening on a 400-mile stretch of highway and won't die, no matter what I try.

P.S. People need to write more Ryan. This is just a little fact to bellow off rooftops when you have some spare time. Please leave a long review full of awe and praise if you're so inclined.

Disclaimer: Some people can think of funny and entertaining disclaimers. I can't. So here it is, the blunt and harsh truth: I never have (and never will) make any money off of or own _CSI_ or it's characters. Now if only I could think of a wittier way of saying it.

Out With It  
Act 1: Long Live Las Vegas

**I was born to be yours.  
**-Sarah Bernhardt to Jean Richepin, _1668_

"She was so pretty."

Such a statement was of the norm at the scene of a crime, especially when Alexx Woods said it.

She said it because she believed it; she believed it because it was true. Those who were estranged or forgotten or simply not loved became very beautiful after they left the world. Horatio hadn't understood it when he was younger, but it made sense now. When the family of victims realize that they would never see their loved one again, their feud became meaningless and they would cry, regret, and remember the lost one's beauty.

Most of the time, anyway.

But when estates or fortunes or businesses entered the picture, love and affection were forgotten along with the dead and it became a CSI's job to remember them the best they could.

Horatio Caine let out a small, tired sigh. The sky over Miami was still dark in the early hours of morning, but sun was threatening to spill over the horizon at any moment, lighting the Western Hemisphere. He only wished it could light the scene of this murder.

He watched as Alexx tenderly brushed blonde curls from a pale, lifeless face. "A roof is a strange place to die, though," she continued. "Poor thing."

Alexx was the best ME Horatio had ever known- it was a never a quick prelim on the scene; it was in depth and careful, as if the victim could still feel pain when she touched them. She stayed with those who died, draping white sheets carefully over their still bodies and looking over the scene mournfully, knowing someone else had lost their life to lust or hate or greed.

He observed the dead woman over Alexx's shoulder. He allowed his eyes to close momentarily before reminding himself that Eric and Frank would be there soon. He had to wake up and do his job. Be the boss. Show minimal emotion.

"Alexx, I don't think anyone wears that much make-up."

It was the first thing Horatio had said so far. He disliked the way it sounded- careless and unfeeling, as if the case was all that mattered and not the victim.

"That's because they don't. This stuff is laid on pretty thick, Horatio. I'm thinking she might have been an actress, singer, performer, something along those lines."

"What about a showgirl?"

"Like can-can Vegas?"

"That's a good example."

Alexx allowed herself a small smile. "I wouldn't be surprised. The dress alone is sequined, beaded and made out of a spandex mix. I can't imagine it's comfortable, but it's perfect for a casino show."

"Any I.D.?"

"No. I'll run DNA and page you as soon as possible." Alexx went silent for a moment before looking once more at the woman's face. "Sweet thing died crying. Look at her mascara."

Horatio looked into the Miami horizon instead, now glowing pink and orange. He wanted to look anywhere but the lifeless face, the face of a woman who expected to be avenged now. That was his job, and his mind wouldn't let him rest until he completed it. He didn't need to look at her smeared black mascara to know this woman didn't want to die.

"Thanks Alexx."

"Never a problem. I have a feeling this girl's a long way from home."

The red head took a breath before slipping on his infamous sunglasses.

"So do I."

Light hit the water and the sun broke over the Miami.

…

Ugh. Ryan Wolfe grimaced as he took another sip of the bitter liquid better known as Miami-Dade CL's break room coffee. Even though he knew it was and always would be a terrible experience, it was this gag-worthy caffeine kick or falling asleep at his microscope, neither of which were very appealing options.

The urge to do well at this job -a job he had wanted so badly for so long- ate at him, and falling asleep at a microscope certainly wouldn't help his position. He wanted so desperately to prove he could turn every stone and discover every piece of evidence to lead a guilty man to prison.

He sighed to himself. It wasn't the job that worried him… it was his responsibility to fill in the shoes of a man named Timothy Speedle. He had never met him, never heard his voice or saw the color of his eyes. Ryan didn't know Tim's family or interests; he only knew what Calliegh or Eric offered to inform him when such moments presented themselves. Horatio looked sick whenever Ryan pushed to know more, so he learned not to ask.

"Hey Ryan."

Ryan jumped a little before turning to see Calleigh Duquesne smiling at him.

"Oh, Calleigh. Hi. I didn't hear anyone come in."

"And you call yourself a CSI?" she asked lightly before finding a chair and sinking into it. Ryan frowned thoughtfully at her as she did so, her joking question stuck in his mind. _It was a joke. Shake it off. She wasn't serious. _Still, the thought that someone might find his abilities less than up to par scared him more than he liked to admit.

He didn't reply. She looked up at him before grinning wider once she spotted the Styrofoam cup in his hand. "I see you're choking on our latest brew."

Ryan involuntarily made another face. Her question was still prodding at his mind, but the mere mention of the sludge-cleverly-disguised-as-coffee immediately got his attention. How could it not? The taste was still heavy in his mouth.

"I wish someone would learn how to make a decent cup of Joe around here. Somebody's going to die because of this stuff one day."

Ryan looked up, surprised when he heard Calleigh laugh, when she tilted her head back and let her voice ring off the walls. He could tell she was tired, her hair slightly flat and her face pale from the absence of cosmetics, long since worn away.

"Die how, pray tell?" she asked, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow.

Ryan shrugged. "Depends. The strong ingredients could cause organ failure; the taste itself could cause shock and then choking. If this coffee didn't keep Miami law enforcement awake, I'd call HAZMAT and have it investigated and then banned from US markets."

She laughed again, their witty banter always cheering her up. "That's pretty deep, Ryan. You've obviously thought long and hard about this break room coffee situation."

Ryan smiled and shrugged. "When the coffee nightmares keep me up at night, I think of long and painful deaths to inflict on those who brew it."

"Scary threat."

"Even scarier coffee. Would you like a cup? I think I can hide the taste of poison with some Equal."

She smiled and shook her blonde head. "Thanks, but no. I've got some month-old energy bars stashed in the fridge somewhere."

"Ah, the glamorous life of CSIs," he murmured, flopping onto a chair across from her. "If only we'd known, right?"

"Don't even get me started," she interjected. "Between my non-existent date life, lack of sleep and Nutri Grain diet, it's hard to believe I don't love this job with all my heart."

"I don't know. I kind of like it. It'd be better without all the dead people."

She smiled ruefully. "I think we'd all like it better that way. Besides, what do you enjoy about fifteen hours shifts and DNA swabs?"

"I like helping people." He didn't need to think about his reply. It's what he had always known.

Calleigh went silent before smiling again. This time, it was brighter and more her style. "Of course you'd say that, Ryan Wolfe. You're such a boy scout. But when it comes to the job, it's all or nothing. No significant others and no private time. Doesn't that bother you?"

"No. I think what we do us more important. Besides, it's not like either of us have a love life anyway."

"Y'know, Valera thinks you're a cutie. Not that you heard it from me."

Ryan felt a flush begin to creep across his face. He smiled politely at her (the kind of smile that never reached his eyes), hoping he could steer her towards another subject, one far away from romantic interests. That was his taboo topic. "Of course I didn't hear it from you. Not Calleigh D., gossip queen. But more importantly, I think this new case we're working on is-''

"I know a guy you'd probably hit it right off with," she continued, as if Ryan had never even spoken.

Ryan dropped his coffee cup.

He didn't even notice it until he realized that his khakis were wet. Her words were still echoing across the room in his mind as he jumped up, becoming conscious of the soaked floor and something like "I'm sorry" being uttered from his mouth. He wasn't actually sorry; it was just something people said when they did stupid things like spill disgusting coffee on a perfectly clean floor while a fear of their sexuality becoming public knowledge ate at them.

"That was a little obvious, Ryan," she said, slightly amused.

"I know. I've –uh- I need to clean this up," he said, a twinge of anxiety coloring his voice. He was looking around even though the break room was empty, his OCD paranoia fully kicking in, his fear that someone might have heard her beginning to make his fingers tremble.

"I'm sorry," she said, beginning to realize the scale of his discomfort and sitting up, eyes wide and filled with worry. "He was only a suggestion."

"I know it was, Cal. It's- uh, fine. I overreacted." He quickly went to the cabinets to find some paper towels and clean up his mess. _You were so obvious._ He wanted to kick himself. _God, you're so stupid. Are you going to drop whatever you're holding whenever someone mentions something like that? _

"There aren't hidden cameras in here or anything," Calleigh was saying, worriedly, realizing that he was cleaning too ferociously, too nervously for him to really be comfortable with what she had said. "Here, let me help." She made the motions to grab some towels, but he shook his head.

"No, it's nothing. I'm almost finished." It was true; he had moved at lightning quick speed. He wanted to clean the spill and then leave. He needed to immerse himself in his job and forget this whole embarrassing ordeal ever happened.

"Are you mad? You look-''

"I'm not mad, Calleigh."

"I won't- it's only that I was thinking we could meet up with some of my friends. You just seem so…" She drifted off, searching for the right word. Finally, it seemed to come to her. "Lonely."

_Lonely._

"I thought we both agreed we didn't have time to be lonely?" he asked lightly, hoping to lift the cloud of guilt that was now hanging above her. He threw away the stained paper towels and gathered his files.

"Ryan, please don't be upset."

"I'm not. Honest."

"You're a terrible liar."

"Just don't say anything to anyone and we'll be fine."

She frowned, a worried wrinkle making itself known on her forehead. "Okay."

He could tell that she still wasn't happy with herself, but he couldn't seem to think of a way to comfort her. The fact was that he didn't think he could even speak at the moment.

He would have to meet a hell of an amazing person to come out of the closet all the way. Public displays of affection? No way. Sharing apartments? Not a chance. Letting the entire Miami day shift know that he preferred guys? Out of the question.

_I'm not lonely._

It was just all out of the question.

…

_Ring. _

_Ring._

_Ring._

Ryan thought that if he kept his eyes closed and blankets draped over his head that the phone would stop ringing, it's shrill tone piercing the still air of his bedroom.

He had been dreaming, although now he can't recall what it had been about. The images that he had entertained in his sleep fled at the sound; there were lights, music, glass, bits and pieces of his subconscious melding themselves together to create a weird show.

_Ring._

_Ring._

_Ri-_

"Hello?" His voice sounded dead even to his own ears. He pried his eyes open, hoping to find the glaring red numbers of his digital clock.

"Hey Ryan! It's Calleigh!"

"Calleigh," he repeated, trying to force his mind to wake up. He usually could; he was serious about his job and yearned to do well, but it still seemed so… well, _early_. Why was she calling? Did he oversleep?

"Is everything okay?" he asked, finally catching the time through his sleep-induced haze. "It's two thirty in the morning." Part of his conscious state was relieved to know that he certainly wasn't late for work.

"Everything's great!" she replied. "But Horatio just called. There's been a change of plans."

"What change?" he asked, the wheels in his mind now beginning to turn.

"We found a DB on the roof of a hotel yesterday. Guess where she's from?"

Ryan paused to knock through the cobwebs in his mind, his brain naturally beginning to pull up little facts and figures. "Calleigh, there are more than thirty thousand cities in the United States alone, not counting the North American continent or even the-''

"That was a rhetorical question, Ryan."

Pause.

"Oh." He felt like an idiot. Of course it was rhetorical. He could hear her laugh.

She couldn't seem to hold it in any longer and didn't wait for him to ask. "Las Vegas!"

"Vegas? Really?" He wanted to sound enthused, but his stomach had suddenly begun churning. What did Las Vegas have to do with him? Was she suggesting…?

"So report to work with a suitcase and a week's worth of clothes tomorrow. I mean, of course we're going on business, but Las Vegas! Isn't that exciting?" Another pause, longer this time. "Ryan? Are you still there?"

Las Vegas. Elvis, lights, casinos… it didn't sound at all like his kind of place. He felt panicked in unfamiliar territory. His doubts about how well he would do at a different lab with new people began to eat at him.

"Ryan?"

"Huh, yeah? I'm listening, Cal."

"You'll be there tomorrow?"

"Of course." Of course. He was dependable, if nothing else. Besides, there was no way he could get out of it.

"Great. Any questions?"

_Will I be able to survive this? _"No."

"You sure?" She sounded apprehensive. "You seem a little…"

"I'm fine," he insisted, unable to stop his smile at her never-ending concern for him. "Tomorrow. Suitcase. Las Vegas. I've got it covered."

A small pause, then, "Okay, see you tomorrow!"

"Tomorrow," he promised.

"We're going to Vegas!"

"Yes, we are."

"I hear they have great shopping."

"You won't have time to shop, Cal."

She sighed wistfully. "I know, but a girl can dream."

When they hung up, Ryan could do nothing but stare at his phone, as if it were a foreign object he had never seen before. The dial tone brought him back to reality and he quickly placed it back on the charger, lying back down to stare at the ceiling.

Las Vegas? There was nothing for him there.

He couldn't fall back asleep.

TBC.

…

Praise and cookies can be sent to me. Flames and all other Mean Comments can be sent to that plot bunny. It was his entire fault anyway!


	2. Blue Hawaii

A/T: Second chapter. Eep. Scary.

Disclaimer: _CSI_ will never ever belong to me. All three series belongs to CBS and Jerry Bruckheimer and other big, important people. I make no money. Heck, I can't even make a few fans.

Out With It  
Act 2: Blue Hawaii

**There are days when one can fix one's gaze upon the sun itself without being blinded: thus it is with me now. I see you, I am dazzled, entranced, and I grasp your beauty in all its splendor.  
**-Julliette Drouet to Victor Hugo, _1836_

"So when's that plane due to land?" Nick Stokes asked Sara Sidle as he walked through the doors of the Clark County crime lab. He was looking over a file and swigging down a bottle of water, black-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. The younger woman looked up from her work and opened her mouth to reply, but Catherine was quick to intervene before Sara could get the chance to speak.

"Don't open _that_ can of worms. She's already listed one hundred and one reasons why other professionals like ourselves shouldn't be allowed to set foot in our labs."

Sara gave the older woman an offended glare. "I have not! I merely pointed out that other CSIs have different ways of doing things. Sure, it's a great way to meet losers like us who have no social lives outside work, but they'll get in our supplies and reorganize everything and walk around like they own all of Las Vegas."

Catherine shook her head at Sara's theory, an amused smile twisting her lips. "I think Grissom would appreciate a more receptive welcome than, 'Hi, nice to meet you, don't mess with my stuff.'"

"Which is exactly what I'm doing," Sara argued. "You want me to be all helpful, right? These clothes are the vic's," she continued, holding up a dress to make her point. "I'm re-examining them to detect possible-''

"You're re-examining the clothes so you can compare your report against someone from Miami and then gloat about it when you find something," Nick casually interjected, not even looking up from his file and taking another sip of water.

Sara went silent, staring at the Texan with large brown eyes. Finally, she hung her head and heaved a long sigh. Catherine's laughter echoed in the background as Sara began bagging the clothes, giving Nick an evil look as she did so.

"Well, _you're_ reading over the file," Sara feebly argued, even though it was clear that Nick had won their small spar. The Texan held up his hands in a non-confrontational manner.

"You can't accuse a CSI of wanting to know what the hell's going on. I won't make that great of a first impression if I don't even know the vic's name."

"C'mon, Sidle," said Catherine, looping her arm around the younger woman's neck. "Rumor 'round the lab is Grissom's having a pow-wow with us in the break room. Gil's lessons on how to treat out-of-towners and guests."

"Offer them bugs?" ventured Sara. All three grinned slightly at the mental picture of their boss offering dead bugs to dazed Miami CSIs in welcome.

"Surprisingly, no. More along the lines of not burping at the dinner table and always offering to take their coats," replied Nick, throwing away his bottle and closing the file.

"Never asking a lady her age," continued Catherine.

"Always saying 'please' and 'thank-you.'"

"Religion and politics don't make for pleasant ice breakers."

Sara laughed as she stored the evidence properly and then put away her lab coat. "So I guess cursing and flipping off the bosses is the wrong way to go?"

They turned off the lights and left the lab together.

…

"I assume you know why I called this meeting," Gil Grissom began as he and his CSIs sat around a break room table, casually sipping a soda or taking some preliminary notes.

"A crash course in how to deal with living people?" Nick offered.

"Exactly," confirmed the older man. "I know we haven't interacted with human beings outside the lab for some time now, but the body of Ellie Jenkins was found on the roof of Isle's Inn in Miami."

"She was a resident of Las Vegas?" Sara queried, scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad.

Grissom nodded. "We think her killer might be as well. The point is that she was murdered in Miami and it's their jurisdiction. It would be great if you could show them around and get them used to our labs."

"I don't think these people are incompetent, Grissom," Warrick replied. "A couple of minutes and they'll be off doing their own thing."

"And we do have our own cases," Nick continued. Grissom held up his hand to silence the barrage of protests that were sure to begin.

"Ellie Jenkins is priority number one. We've dug up three other cold cases with the same MO, so be prepared to partner up."

"With Miami? Wouldn't we just be better off-'' Sara began, an argument clearly beginning and she seemed prepared to fight to the end. Even Catherine and Nick, ever ready for a new challenge, seemed wary of partnering up with complete strangers who had different ways of doing things.

"We'll figure it out when they get here," Grissom interjected, giving them his best "boss" look. It was a hard thing to pull off these days. The Clark County night shift weren't merely co-workers or associates; they were friends, practically family, and watched each other's back no matter the circumstances. "We sit back until then."

Warrick didn't seem satisfied with this information, especially not if he had to sit around. His mind and his hands were always ready to uncover evidence and he could never be comfortable resting when he knew his time could be spent solving a case. "What about Greg? Why isn't he learning the basics of human communication with us?"

Grissom smiled slightly. "Greg will be Greg. If all he does is come in dancing to bad music while wearing a showgirl's headdress, I'll consider myself a very lucky boss. Besides, he's better at analyzing some fibers from one of the cold cases."

"So all we're doing is waiting?" asked Sara, glancing at her watch and then to the wall clock, making sure her calculations were correct. "Don't these people know how to tell time? They're twenty minutes late."

Catherine's eyes suddenly grew and Warrick looked as if he wanted to speak; instead, he made himself content by merely shaking his head. Nick pursed his lips behind his hand, trying to hide a smile.

"What? Are you gonna argue? Don't you think it's rude to keep people waiting?" she asked, looking at them as if they had suddenly grown a second head.

Her question was met by silence.

Behind her, someone cleared their throat.

…

Ryan had been a wreck that morning.

He had packed everything -_everything_- that he thought he might need for a stay across the country. He hadn't slept well that night, the worry and panic building up inside of him until all he could do was forgo sleep in favor of packing his suitcases, pressing his clothes, and preparing for a plane ride. He stopped his mail, did the dishes, washed any extra laundry, and watched reruns of _In the Heat of the Night, _a show he admittedly liked and something Calleigh would never let him live down should she discover that his VCR was programmed to record the episodes

Horatio was ever cool that morning, silently reading a forensics journal even when the plane experienced a little turbulence. Calleigh was bouncing with excitement, constantly chattering and gossiping with Horatio and Yelina, both of who listened patiently even when those with shorter nerves might have snapped. Eric simply slept. Ryan smiled despite his nervousness when Eric unwittingly used Ryan's shoulder as a pillow during his nap.

But more than anything, the young CSI was jealous; jealous that they could be so calm about jetting across the country while he could not. He felt like he should've been able to do the same without any problems and that this irrational fear, this grinding anxiety was another mark against him, another reason why he wasn't qualified to be in the field. _Grin and bear it like a man. _That was his new mantra and he silently repeated it to himself over and over again.

And they were finally there. They had arrived, more or less in one piece, to Las Vegas. They had checked into their hotel, unpacked, did inventory on their kits and then grabbed a cab; they were ready to hit their temporary crime lab and unravel another mystery, taking on all of Las Vegas if need be.

_Ready._ Ryan wished he were. He stared up at the CSI building as if it would eat him whole once he stepped through those doors. His hands clenched around the handle of his kit, his jaw set straight in both uneasiness and determination.

He jumped a little when he felt Eric's hand clamp down on his shoulder in a reassuring manner. Maybe he had noticed Ryan's tense nerves or his habit of tugging at the hem of his shirt when he was edgy. Maybe Ryan's chewed down nails (usually meticulously clean and well manicured) or packed-and-repacked luggage gave him away.

"You gotta calm down, man. You're going to be fine."

"Fine?" Ryan asked, trying not to show that his nerves were already frayed and he hadn't even begun his work. "I'm not nervous. I'm just…''

"Terrified?"

Ryan gave him a sheepish look, fighting a yawn as he did so. "Is it that noticeable?"

"Along with those circles under your eyes. When was the last time you slept?"

"About eighteen hours ago."

"Well, if it's any consolation, you make a great airline pillow. I just hope I didn't snore or anything."

Ryan smiled. "Not so much snore as talk."

Eric gave him a look as the guard at the door checked their badges and proper CSI identification. "Talk?"

"I know all your secrets," Ryan grinned as he and Eric followed Calleigh and Horatio down a windowed hall, passing through the doors and into an unknown future. It was darker there somehow, more ghostly than the bright, in-your-face Miami. "Tons of juicy blackmail material."

Eric rolled his eyes, grinning along with him. "Let me tell you, Ryan, I lead a dark and racy life beyond CSI," he said, sarcasm dripping off his words.

"Fast women and high priced drugs?" the younger CSI innocently asked. "I never would have thought you to be the type."

Eric laughed, easygoing despite the circumstances. "Wolfe, the only women in my life are my mother and sisters and the only drug I take are caffeine pills to help me stay awake when we tackle double shifts. I'm a science nerd just like you."

They suddenly halted in their trek, Eric almost running into Yelina from behind. Ryan realized he had hardly been paying attention to where he was going. Where were they supposed to meet the famed graveyard shift anyway? He silently watched as Horatio peered into a room where five individuals were gathered around a table, looking over files and waiting, it seemed, for them. Ryan forced his breaths to come out normally.

Eric leaned down, his tanned skin sharp against that of Ryan's own pale color.

"You were born to do this job," he whispered. "Don't worry. We're here for each other, got it? Yelina, Cal, H, you, me."

Ryan swallowed and nodded, focusing his eyes on the group he would soon be working with and feeling a little less uptight about the ordeal. Horatio had opened the door and the words "…don't these people know how to tell time? They're twenty minutes late." floated out to greet them.

He could do this. He had to. If not for himself or Horatio, then at least for Ellie Jenkins and Tim Speedle, who, he heard, wanted to help people just as much as Ryan did before they had to leave the Earth.

…

The air was still as Sara slowly turned to face them from her position at the table, her eyes wide and lips formed to speak something along the lines of an apology. She closed, opened, and then closed her mouth once more, too ashamed of being overheard by respected guests to form any words at all. In the end, all she could manage was an embarrassed smile.

"Foot in the mouth," muttered an older woman, immediately rising to greet the five Floridians. "Please excuse our manners. We're not really used to company, I guess. Won't you come in?"

Calleigh gave them all a large smile, charming as ever. "That's quite all right. I guess we are a little late. The traffic out there was terrible."

"Absolutely," the woman readily agreed, as if understanding Calleigh's intentions of clearing the air. "Please have a seat and make yourselves at home. Allow us to introduce ourselves." She held out her hand and shook the five visitor's hands in greeting. "I'm Catherine Willows. This is Nick Stokes, Warrick Brown, Sara Sidle, and Gil Grissom, our shift captain."

"Very nice to meet you. I'm Calleigh Duquesne, and this is Eric Delko, Ryan Wolfe, Yelina Salas, and Horatio Caine, _our_ shift captain." She smiled again, hoping to break the awkward tension between the two groups. "You have a spectacular lab. I'm sure working here will be a pleasure."

"Thank you," said Catherine, obviously reading Calleigh's mind. It was true. Sara's comment was making this a little rockier than planned. "We're planning to brief the case, exchange notes. Would you prefer here or an office?"

"This is perfectly fine," Horatio said, pulling up a chair and giving them a slight smile. Eric, Calleigh, Yelina, and Ryan followed suit, willing to try anything to get the ball rolling.

"I guess we'll get started then. Gil?"

Grissom didn't respond at first. He observed the four visitors through the lens of his glasses, absorbing their image, analyzing their personalities, voices, eye color. Horatio looked back, sharp blue eyes doing the same. It was what they were trained to do. Even if they tried, they probably couldn't stop the natural tendency to observe everything around them. So engrained was the examination of details that it became second nature for them.

Finally, Grissom spoke. Catherine looked relieved.

"I think we've got a plan mapped out. Do you mind being paired up?" Grissom was all business, no pleasantries. Catherine rolled her eyes; she supposed that's what _she_ was there for.

"Not at all," replied Calleigh. "Ryan and I have solved tons of cases together."

Ryan smiled a little. "Tons" was taking a few liberties in terms of the number of cases they'd solved, but this was Calleigh after all, and she was never one to shy away from anything.

"I meant with us," Gil replied. "We don't want you to have to waste your time trying to navigate your way around the city and we'd like to have one of our own with you in the lab. Is that all right with you?"

"That's probably a good idea," Horatio approved. Although the simple fact that they could read maps and use lab equipment hung in the air, no one addressed it.

"Great. I understand this is your jurisdiction as well and we don't want to step on your toes. Catherine, Mr. Caine, and I will take care of the day shift investigators as well as the cold cases with the same MO as this one. Miss. Duquesne, you and Sara could probably start with the victim's family and last known residence. Nick and Mr. Delko, her friends and last known job would be a great help. Warrick and Ms. Salas, the vic's-''

"Ellie Jenkins," Ryan interrupted, very suddenly, as if his mouth and brain weren't communicating properly. He flushed a deep red when nine pairs of eyes shifted towards his direction. His fingers began to tug at the hem of his sleeve and he looked down, embarrassed, because he never _ever_ spoke out of turn like that. Not unless the situation was serious.

"I'm sorry?" asked Grissom, shooting his a look mixed with both curiosity and slight –_very_ slight- surprise.

He forced himself to look up and face their questioning glances. "I –uh- I know she's a victim. But her name- it's Ellie Jenkins."

Ryan took a quick look Horatio's direction. The red head's eyes were smiling, as if he were proud of Ryan's timid outburst. A person doesn't lose their name or identity after they die. Tim Speedle surely hadn't.

Grissom paused for a moment before nodding and it seemed as if all nine understood what Ryan was trying to say. "Then Warrick and Ms. Salas, you're in charge of tracing Miss. Jenkins's steps from the airport and all audiovisuals that the airport might have recorded. I've made copies of all the case files that we had. Any questions with this arrangement?"

_Yes._ At least, that's what Ryan wanted to say. However, he refrained when he heard the numerous murmurs of "no" that filled the room. It would be embarrassing to address the issue, especially in front of everyone else, yet Grissom had inadvertently left out a member of the team. Ryan felt himself grimace; being forgotten wasn't the best way to start the day, but he quickly shook the thought. He could just as easily grab Grissom before he left and-

Yelina suddenly looked up and Ryan inwardly groaned at her thoughtful expression. "What about Ryan?" she asked, her accent prominent among the rest of her friends.

The question seemed to still them and Ryan suddenly felt like the little kid that no one really knew what to do with, like a high-schooler at a college frat party. It was the question he had hoped he could avoid in front of his friends and coworkers; it seemed he was the odd one out. They were all partnered up and ready to roll. Ryan didn't want to hold them back.

"I can handle trace and prints," he suggested, hoping to smooth this dilemma over as quickly as possible. "I can practically do it blindfolded." The silence that followed was questionable, as if they were parents considering whether or not to allow their energetic child into a china store. Ryan fought away the humiliating blush that was working its way up his neck. What was wrong with these people? After all, he was a certified CSI and could manage prints and DNA like he could ride a bike.

"I won't blow up the lab or anything," he said, a tinge of aggravation coloring his voice.

Grissom, Catherine, Sara, Warrick, and Nick's faces turned stony and they looked away from him. Ryan felt sick as he exchanged a nervous glance with Eric. He was already screwing things up big time; obviously, he had said something to strike a nerve in the Las Vegas team.

"Fine," agreed Grissom, not looking Ryan's direction. "Mr. Caine? Anything you'd like to add?"

Horatio looked up from his copy of Ellie Jenkins's file. Miami's case files had been passed out as well and everything that either group knew about the case had been shared and was ready to be set to good use.

Gil Grissom and Horatio Caine had two conflicting personalities.

Two different ways of looking at things.

Two different ways of working.

One common goal.

Ryan watched as the two Level 3 CSIs sizing each other up and knew that Gil Grissom was probably a brilliant man with more than his share of tricks up his sleeve.

But Horatio Caine had his tricks as well.

And Ellie Jenkins's ghost could use all the tricks she could get.

…

The paired CSIs had immediately gotten together once the meeting was over to begin their investigations. Eric gave Ryan one last smile before meeting up with Nick, a dark haired fellow with a slight country accent.

_You were born to do this job_. Eric's words kept floating around in his mind. He hoped that the Cuban was right and that he wouldn't give Miami law enforcement a bad name.

He was abandoned. He tried not to dwell on the thought of working alone, ignoring the feeling of being left out. What did Calleigh always say? Find the bright side of the situation? Well, there wasn't much you could do to screw up in a DNA or trace lab. That is, unless you mixed explosive chemicals or somehow compromised evidence. He inwardly winced. He'd never done those things, but there was a first time for everything.

Catherine was about to follow Horatio and Gil out of the room before she glanced over her shoulder towards a man who was trying to keep his dignity in tact. She paused before turning and walking towards him instead. He felt her approach and fumbled with his field kit, trying to act as if his being discarded wasn't a huge deal and look as if he were doing something remotely important.

"I'm sure you're a fantastic CSI. I apologize for the way things seem to be working out." Catherine Willows seemed to be a kind, determined woman and her words were almost reassuring. She could tell he was embarrassed, but he certainly wasn't broken.

Ryan returned her small smile. "No problem. I like DNA."

"Do you need someone to escort you to the labs? I could get Mia or Bobby to show you around."

"I can handle it." He grabbed his kit handle before giving her a smile. "Good luck with the cold cases. You'll like working with Horatio."

"And I'm sure you're going to enjoy your job as well." She gave him a grin, her amusement genuine. "We have some really interesting people who work here. You probably got the good end of the bargain."

Ryan wasn't sure if he could agree, but he kept his head held high as he took his kit and began making his way to where he suspected the labs might be located. He hoped no one was watching; it felt humiliating to be the odd one out. He sighed, knowing he would just have to make the best of it. His dignity was certainly wounded, but he was here for Ellie Jenkins and that was the one thought that kept him going.

He continued down the hall, making sure to ask someone if he was going in the right direction before he got completely lost.

_Your CSI skills are improving_, he thought, all but rolling his eyes at himself. _You can find your way around a building now._

That's about when he noticed the sounds, the strange vibrations underneath his feet.

Ryan stopped, giving his surroundings a curious once over before listening again. It was sort of like music; heavy and thumping, maybe even with words. He looked around again, inquisitive. Where was it coming from?

He ignored his natural tendency to uncover the source before heading on. It didn't really matter. Well, usually it wouldn't. The problem was that the sounds seemed to be getting louder as he moved towards the labs. He might not have been the most learned CSI there, but there certainly had to be some regulation against loud, agitating noise in the work place. There were cases to be solved and evidence to be analyzed. Who in the _world _would allow this type of-

Ryan stopped dead in his tracks.

The lab walls were made of glass and within that room was a man; blonde hair, a rock band t-shirt, skinny DNA tubes in his hands, obviously being used for make-shift drum sticks. He was mouthing words to whatever music he was currently listening to. Did he know that it could be heard down the hall? Ryan got the feeling that the man probably wasn't even aware of it.

"Excuse me, sir?" Ryan asked, quickly getting the attention of an older gentleman who looked as if he might know what was going on. Ryan sincerely hoped that _this_ wasn't the lab he was supposed to work in.

"Yes?"

"Is that- is that the DNA lab?"

The man followed Ryan's gaze before rolling his eyes at the sight. "That's definitely the lab," he replied. Ryan could tell the older man probably had numerous go-arounds with the technician occupying the room.

"But the… the guy in there. He's- he's not really…" He searched for the words but couldn't seem to find the right way of expressing his concerns. The older man seemed to understand.

"Don't worry. Are you a new guy?"

"I'm from Miami."

He nodded. "Ah. I've been hearing about that. Listen, he's a fantastic tech. He's just a little… eccentric. And he doesn't spell that well, so you might want to fill out the reports."

"Oh."

He almost seemed amused by Ryan's in-the-headlights look. "The name's Al Robbins. ME." He held out his hand, the one that wasn't clutching his walking cane. Ryan quickly shook it, desperate for an ally.

"Nice to meet you."

"Likewise. You're working DNA?"

Ryan nodded in response.

"Good. Maybe you can knock some sense into him. His name's Greg Sanders and he hides his brilliance well, but he grows on you like a bad fungus."

Ryan couldn't help but a laugh a little at the ME's solemn expression and his description of the relationship the technician had with people. The older man smiled a little as well.

"You'll like him. Good luck with your case."

"Thank you," replied Ryan, giving the ME a small wave before turning back to what would surely be an interesting encounter.

He took a long, deep breath before opening the door to the lab, the muffled sound suddenly exposed; loud, thunderous music filled the hallway and he quickly allowed himself in, hurriedly closing the door behind him. Ryan gave the room a quick once over before returning his gaze back to the tech.

The words of the song filled his head. He had heard it before, he just wasn't quite sure where.

"_I was lying on the grass the Sunday morning of last week, indulging in my self defeat."_

"Excuse me?" he said, trying to be heard over the pulsing sounds. This had zero effect.

"_My mind was thugged, all laced and bugged, all twisted wrong and beat-''_

"_Excuse me!" _Ryan called again, this time much louder. This still didn't help him any. The man had his back turned, using some scissors to clip the tips off of DNA swabs while he nodded his head to the beat.

"_A comfortable three feet deep."_

Ryan knew this called for drastic measures and, ignoring the music as much as he could, walked right over to the spiky haired gentleman and prodded his shoulder.

Greg Sanders, obviously in tune enough with his surroundings to notice someone else's touch, stopped his air-drumming and glanced to his left.

Their eyes met and Ryan felt his stomach suddenly knot. It wasn't the result of worry; instead, it was… something else. He couldn't quite place his finger on it, but it made him uncomfortable.

"_Now the fuzzy stare from not being there on a confusing morning week impaired my tribal lunar-speak_-''

Finally, the man jumped and turned to switch off his stereo, as if he had left reality for a few moments and suddenly crashed back down to Earth.

The silence that resulted was nearly as loud as the music itself.

"Sorry. Didn't hear you come in," said the man, observing Ryan, who, under the stare, began to turn a light shade of pink

"That's all right," he politely replied, unsure as to what to say.

"Have we met?" the tech inquired, the silent question of "who are you?" hanging in the air.

Ryan's mind was still more or less on standstill, trying to absorb all that was going on around him. "Ryan Wolfe, Miami CSI." He held out his hand in introduction.

The other man's eyes grew wide before he gave Ryan an embarrassed smile and returned the handshake. "Grissom wanted me to make a good first impression for you guys. Guess that was a pipe dream, huh?"

Ryan smiled, an easiness beginning to form between them. "I don't know. I kind of like that song you were playing."

Greg's eyes lit up and a huge grin spread across his face. He quickly left his spot from behind the counter and headed over to the Floridian. "Really?"

Ryan nodded. "I think nineties rock is so much better than the stuff they play now."

"That's what I always say!" said Greg, obviously very enthused about the subject and shaking Ryan's hand vigorously. "Nick thinks I'm out of my mind, but you can never trust he who thinks Garth Brooks has talent."

Ryan laughed. "I don't like country music either."

"You said you're from the Miami team? Where's your partner?" Greg looked around, as if expecting to see someone else before returning his attention to Ryan.

Ryan tried not to let his bruised self-esteem show. "I was kind of left to fare on my own," he confessed.

"Odd-guy out?"

"Sort of. I offered to work DNA and trace. Everyone else was paired up and I didn't want to be a third wheel or anything."

Greg nodded as if he understood, a small frown on his face. "I feel you. I just passed my proficiency test and I've been working the field for a few months, but since this case popped up, they've really needed some extra hands in the lab," he explained.

Ryan couldn't fight his small sigh. "Two CSIs in the lab," he summarized, giving Greg a small smile. "Bruises the ego, doesn't it?"

Greg grinned. "Absolutely, but humiliation loves company. So we'll be working together?"

"Only if you don't mind sharing the lab."

"Mind? It'll be great to have someone to talk to. I'll get you a lab coat."

"Thanks," Ryan replied, setting down his field kit next to what he could only assume was Greg's.

"Want some coffee?" Greg offered as he began to shuffle through various storage spaces in search of an extra generic coat.

Ryan fought not to make a face. "I sort of have a thing against company coffee. The stuff in our break room nearly kills me."

Greg gave him a smile, a smile that nearly floored the Miami CSI. "That's break room coffee. I meant _my_ coffee. It's Blue Hawaiian."

"Is it any good?"

Greg smiled again, pulling out a clean blue lab coat from a small storage closet. He handed it to Ryan before turning to a small coffee maker and pouring a cup full.

"Cream? Sugar?"

"Both, please."

Greg continued to make Ryan's coffee while their conversation flowed. "You look about my age. Are you a newbie for the CSI team?"

Ryan frowned at the term. "_Are you the newbie? Are you the replacement?" _The questions the Miami-Dade staff had asked him his first couple of days still haunted him when he had too much time to dwell on it. "_Are you replacing Tim?"_ They had looked at him as they would a killer, as if Ryan had shot Tim himself.

_I'm not a replacement._

"No."

Greg looked over his shoulder when he heard Ryan's tone of voice.

"Is that term offensive to you too?" he quietly asked.

"A little." Ryan tried to explain himself, hoping that Greg wouldn't think he was a complete nut case. "It's… insulting. When people call you a newbie, it's like they don't respect you enough to call you by your real name. As if new workers aren't already stressed out enough, right? They have to be reminded they haven't proven themselves yet."

Greg turned to face him and for a moment, they were both silent.

"You wanna be partners?"

"I'm sorry?" asked Ryan, looking up. Greg grinned.

"You said you were the odd guy out, right? You're going to need someone to show you around and get you used to the city. I could be your partner. I know it sucks being the little kid."

Ryan paused to consider his options, the pros and cons and regulations. "Okay," he finally agreed, unsure of what he was getting himself into and for once, not caring. Their fingers brushed when Greg handed him the coffee and Ryan tried not to choke on his own oxygen.

He politely took a sip, trying to avoid Greg's eyes. Once the flavor hit his tongue, he took an entire gulp, praying that the caffeine could get him through the night and praying even harder that he could manage what ever hurdles were thrown his way.

"This is the best coffee I've ever tasted," Ryan admitted appreciatively. "Maybe it'll get me through tonight. I've never worked graveyard before."

Greg grinned, wide and bright. Ryan returned the smile. Both were at ease for once.

"Shift's about to officially start. I have Ellie Jenkins's personal items. We can start running trace if you'd like," Greg offered, heading towards a drawer. He had already started talking, already making himself at home with his new partner.

Ryan nodded, taking another sip of coffee before shrugging on the crisp blue lab coat, freshly pressed and clean.

"That's what I'm here for."

Maybe they could be friends. Ryan felt a heavy load lift from his shoulders and as he watched Greg begin fiddling with equipment, he realized that maybe this case wouldn't be as long and grueling as he first anticipated. He took a small breath and helped himself to another cup of coffee, willing his trembling fingers to calm themselves. He looked out the glass walls of the lab, his eyes absorbing the movement of the rush, the people hurrying up and down the hallway, speaking on cells and reading through files, trying to solve untimely deaths of those who couldn't stop it themselves.

_You're not lonely. You were born to do this job._

Greg Sanders took the chance to observe Ryan when he knew he wouldn't be caught. The darker haired man was gazing out the window, his eyes catching sight of something that Greg couldn't see. Greg noticed Ryan's eyes were filled with determination and beauty and they looked almost distant, as if his mind was on something else altogether.

Greg looked away. This knot in his stomach was a bad feeling.

Over the city, lights were beginning to shine in the dusk.

The sun set on Las Vegas.

TBC.

…

A/T: What do you think so far? Here's an idea to run past you: what do you think of a small Eric/Nick side story? Do we like it? Hate it? Who should I couple up and leave alone? Please participate in my brilliance!


	3. The Alaska

A/T: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed my story (and, happily, wished for me to continue.) The general consensus of the population when it comes to the Nick/Eric question is either an overwhelming "Totally!" to "Heck, why not? I'll try anything once!" This pleases me greatly. Keep it comin'!

Disclaimer: We all, being the intelligent individuals that we are, know the answer to this one: I don't own _CSI_. I don't imagine anyone here owns _CSI_, now that I think about it. Do you suppose Jerry Bruckheimer is posting on this forum? No, really. I'm curious.

Out With It  
Act 3: The Alaska

**You soothe my soul, you fill it with so tender a sentiment that it is sweet to live during the time that I see you.  
**-Julie de L'Espinasse to Comte Hippolyte, _1774_

Ryan and Eric dragged in through the front doors of the Las Vegas crime lab the next night, twenty minutes late. Calleigh, Horatio, and Yelina had entered before them and on time; all three were awake and ready to get to work. They were tired, certainly, but their minds never stopped racing, not even while they slept. Bits and pieces of past crimes ghosted into their dreams and they couldn't properly rest until they discovered the reasons to the never-ending dilemma of bizarre human nature. It was this bizarre human nature that led, inevitably, to murder.

Ryan and Eric weren't as lucky.

Ryan was haunted too, of course. He dreamed of yellow police tape and soulless bodies and a reoccurring, seemingly aimless dream of lights and glass and music that disturbed his slumber. Watching Eric sleep on the other side of the room –the Cuban's perfect stillness, no thrashing but instead quietly opening his eyes when he woke- gave away the fact that his mind, too, was unwillingly entertaining visions of things he would prefer to forget.

But human nature was both bizarre and predictable and having roomed together, the first thing Eric subconsciously did was press the snooze button on his alarm clock when it went off that evening. If it hadn't been for Ryan's backup alarm (even at Eric's teasing, he had set it that night anyway), it was anyone's guess to how late they might have been. Ryan didn't want to think about it, didn't want to even consider how bad he would make the five of them look in the eyes of the Las Vegas team.

"Hey," greeted Nick, once he caught sight of them shuffling through the hall and down to the break room, where Eric would grab a cup of coffee (or five) and Ryan would grab a bag of Skittles, his only means of dinner. Or, rather, breakfast.

"Hello," Ryan replied back, at least _slightly_ more awake than Eric. Awake enough, in any case, to verbally communicate with a fellow co-worker. Eric, on the other hand, simply looked at the Texan until Ryan lightly elbowed him, tipping the darker man off that he was staring a little obviously with brown, sleep deprived eyes.

"Sleep well?" asked Nick, giving Eric a concerned look over the rim of his coffee mug. Eric blinked, seemingly trying to process the question in his mind.

"Huh? Oh, yeah."

Ryan rolled his own eyes slightly, a small smile on his face at Eric's caveman response.

"He's having a hard time adjusting to this night shift thing," the younger CSI explained, giving Eric another amused look.

"How do you do it?" asked Eric as they entered through the doors of the break room. He managed to make himself a cup of coffee before finding a chair and slumping into it, fighting back a yawn as he did so. "I think I need ten more hours of sleep before I can even _think _of waking up."

Nick laughed a little at Eric's tone. "You'll get used to it."

"That's what everyone keeps telling me."

"Don't worry about it. Breakfast at six PM will be typical for you in no time."

"Was that supposed to be comforting?" asked Eric, grinning slightly. "It's freaking me out. Normal people have breakfast in the morning, lunch in the afternoon, and dinner in the _evening_, after which they go to sleep."

"You think we're a bunch of mutant bat humans, don't you?" Nick asked, grinning and taking another sip of coffee, sliding into a chair across from Eric. "We work by night, sleep by day, and solve crime in the process."

"All you're missing is a penguin and a guy who likes riddles. And maybe a cool car stored in a cave."

"You're a funny guy, Delko."

"He's hilarious," replied Ryan, laughing slightly and punching in the numbers for a pack of Skittles in the vending machine behind them. "But I hope he wakes up before you get to the Ellie Jenkins's casino. He might take a nap in the car and start talking in his sleep again."

"So he's a talker?" Nick asked, giving Eric a raised brow.

"I do _not_ talk in my sleep. And aren't you supposed to be in the lab, Mister Punctuality?" Eric asked Ryan, giving the younger man a "they'll never find your remains" glare.

"Touchy."

"Sleepy," Eric corrected. "And probably grumpy as well. Now go bury yourself in some microscopes and crack this case for me. I'm going back to the hotel and getting some shut-eye."

"In your dreams."

"And what sweet dreams they are."

Nick looked at them both, amused and almost envious of their easy banter. They were obviously good friends with a great working relationship. He could only hope of reaching that point with Eric as well. Actually, it seemed they already had. They worked well together and had a great rapport between them. After all, if you're going to be stuck with someone for twelve hours every night, you're better off getting along than anything else.

Ryan laughed once more before waving a farewell and heading down towards the DNA lab, the thought of Blue Hawaiian coffee making him practically jog. Eric's response: '_And what sweet dreams they are' _echoed through his mind as he made his way past the rush and press of workers milling their way through the halls of the CSI building, getting ready for another graveyard shift, openly wary and silently terrified of what the night may bring.

Ryan couldn't blame them. Abuse, rape, murder- at some point, these things among many others had become a run-of-the-mill element in society.

_And what sweet dreams they are_.

They never talked about dreams. They could never make it through without crying.

…

Before he knew he wanted to be a scientist, before he realized he liked chemistry and books and words, Greg knew he liked girls _and _guys. He used to be afraid of that. He wasn't any longer, not after all that he had been through and the support he's been given. It just wasn't that terrifying anymore. Instead, he was simply… lonely. He didn't have anyone to complain about his night hours or make him dinner or comfort him as he burst into tears like a child when his mind wandered too deeply into the cases he worked.

His social life was the lab, his friends were his co-workers, and a hot Friday these days was when Nick or Warrick or even Sara was up for breakfast at Denny's.

Lonely was something he thought he'd never be.

But he was, and in the white, sterile confine of the lab, it was obvious.

Then he met Ryan Wolfe. Gorgeous, charming, shy, brilliant Ryan Wolfe. And all of a sudden, the music that kept him company and his day-to-day, I'm-single-but-I-don't-really-care routine was down the drain, along with all the common sense he possessed. He had known Ryan for one night and he had more effect on him then all those he's ever dated combined.

_God, what am I thinking? _That question was easy: obviously, he wasn't thinking at all.

He flipped the coffee maker on and closed his eyes, leaning against the wall.

These feelings were _not_ allowed. You can't get a crush on a co-worker who technically isn't really a co-worker, especially if they live a good six hours away by plane and particularly if said co-worker was a guy. A guy, who he'd guess, was completely straight and could never begin to feel anything for an eccentric, weird, geeky CSI.

_You're so hopeless._

Greg heard the door to the lab swing open, even as he was slouched against the wall and facing the opposite direction. He knew whom it was- the footsteps were hurried and Ryan _was_ late, despite his seriousness for the job and longing to impress both his boss and Grissom.

Greg mentally prepared himself before turning to face the darker haired man. _He's off limits. Besides, it wouldn't matter anyway. Long distance relationships don't work and you're definitely not a one-night stand kind of guy. Neither is he. Moreover, he could never like you. Get your mind off of him and on the case._

Greg turned, willing his thoughts to calm themselves before offering Ryan a welcome smile. "Hey."

"Hi."

"Shall I note your delayed arrival to the lab and mock you, or should I be kind and let it slide?"

Ryan gave him an embarrassed smile as he quickly donned his blue lab coat. "My roommate's best friend is the snooze button. I apologize for my tardiness."

"Aw, and I've been so lonely waiting for you."

Ryan grinned slightly. "I'm sure you have." His large brown eyes wandered towards the coffee maker, hissing as it trickled the brown, hot liquid into a pot. "Is that coffee I hear brewing?"

"It is indeed."

"I hope there's enough for two."

"I'm willing to share for a minimal fee."

"Oh yeah? What kind of fee is that?"

"You do my chores for a week."

Ryan gave him a confused look before suddenly grinning and then, like a miracle, laughing.

"You know, you're going to spoil me on that coffee you make," Ryan said, setting his backpack on a nearby desk and beginning to dig through its contents. "I'll go back to Miami and knock back a cup of that sludge they brew as I fondly remember Las Vegas."

"Every time you think of Las Vegas, you'll think of me. What a happy life you'll lead then."

Ryan smiled again, finally finding what he was looking for. It hadn't been that hard. His books and notes were in perfect order, his pens were fresh and he always brought plenty of back ups, should, on a weird occasion, the three he already carried around decide to stop working simultaneously.

Greg more or less walked up behind him, peering over his shoulder. Ryan tried to fight down his growing embarrassment at Greg's solemn silence once the lighter haired man caught sight of Ryan's OCD habits.

"A little OCD there, Wolfe?"

Ryan cleared his throat. "It's a minor case."

"Good. 'Cause I wouldn't know where to find a pen if you gave me a map. Is that music I see in your hand?"

"I –uh- I hope you don't mind," began the younger CSI, quickly zipping up his backpack and placing it against the wall, hidden from anyone's wandering eye. "I can't really concentrate when there's music playing too loudly."

"No music?" asked Greg, placing his hand over his heart and taking a theatric step back. "It'll be tough, but I think I might be able to survive for a few weeks without my Red Hot Chili Peppers."

"That's not exactly what I meant," replied Ryan, heading over to the CD player. He switched it on and took out Greg's _By The Way_ CD before placed in another, turning it to a respectable sound level, one where you could actually hear yourself think.

Greg allowed the song to begin, curious as to what Ryan listened to.

"Is that…?" he began, quickly giving a Ryan an admirable look. "The Beach Boys?" _Is this guy perfect for me or what?_

Ryan laughed at Greg's tone of voice. "Yes," he replied. "I love them. No one makes music like that anymore."

"You're a full fledged nerd," Greg observed.

"A little."

"So am I. The Beach Boys rock. I have some of their old vinyl records."

"Really? I thought you were the weird punk rocker type. Well, not weird. I don't judge people on appearance or anything. But that Alice Cooper shirt you're wearing kind of gives me an impression."

Greg shook his head at Ryan's nervousness, smiling widely before walking over and slinging a long arm around Ryan's tense shoulders. "Calm down, Wolfe. I'm insulted all the time. At this point, nothing you say can offend me. Now, let me introduce you to the joys of running fingerprints from an entire casino."

…

"You awake yet?" Nick asked as Eric finished off his third cup of coffee. They were driving now, driving down to Ellie Jenkins's last known workplace. It had taken them nearly their entire shift the night before to find out where she worked- all they knew is that it was a casino, so Eric and Nick split a list and tracked down each gambling establishment, each boss and each employee roll until they stumbled upon The Alaska, a small casino that Las Vegas wasn't exactly known for.

"Surprisingly, yes."

"Surprisingly?" asked Nick, giving Eric a look from his seat at the wheel. "Three cups of coffee, two Twix bars and a bag of Skittles? You should either be awake or in a diabetic coma."

"You should feel fortunate I dragged myself out of bed in the first place," Eric laughed. "I had half the mind to just let Horatio go ahead and fire me."

Nick laughed too, turning back to the road. The Alaska was off the mainstream roads and the streets here were strangely quiet with nothing but sand, sky, and stars to keep them both company. It felt good to Nick to escape the lights and sounds of the famous Las Vegas and actually view a part of Nevada instead.

"I'm sorry this night shift deal is such a hard thing for you."

"I've got Ryan to keep me in line _and_ to set the backup alarm."

Nick paused, recalling the way the two Miami CSIs interacted with each other. Ryan was certainly very nice, plus his large eyes and that shaggy haircut made him look the part. "He seems like a nice guy."

"Ryan? He is. I think it's great that we have him on our team. But, y'know, when he realized how late we were, he nearly killed me with his own bare hands."

"I'm sure your boss shared that sentiment."

"Which is why I've been avoiding him all night."

Nick gave him an amused look. "All you Miami guys are great CSIs," he continued, hoping to keep the conversation flowing and get to know his new partner better. "I heard Ryan replaced someone though."

Eric looked up and even in the dark Nick could tell that he had said something wrong, as if his words were fire and they burnt Eric's skin. _What are you, incompetent? _Nick thought to himself, wishing he could just go ahead and bang his head against the steering wheel. _Replacement only means one thing._

"He's not a replacement. He's an… addition. For when Tim got shot."

Nick was proved right, although he wished he hadn't been.

"I'm sorry."

"How can you be? You never knew him," Eric replied. "It's okay _not_ to be sorry sometimes."

"Well, we almost lost one of out own too. Greg works DNA. Ryan's probably working with him, actually."

"How'd you almost lose him?" asked Eric, curiosity laced in his voice. "I didn't know gunmen tried to take over trace labs." Nick knew he was trying to hide the sorrow at the mention of Tim Speedle and he wished he hadn't even brought it up. God, he was stupid.

"The lab exploded."

"Christ," said Eric, giving the Texan a surprised look. "He survived that?"

"Barely. But Greg's Greg, man. He can get through anything and still make a bad joke about it."

They continued to make small talk as they drove up to The Alaska. Eric knew they had found the right place when blue lights shone starkly against a midnight sky, covered with silver stars.

Nick hadn't exactly been forthcoming with The Alaska's specific clientele, so when they pulled up in the Tahoe, Eric wondered why Nick had suddenly become so silent, so rigid and uncomfortable in the short ten seconds it took to park.

Once he caught a full view of the place, he knew why.

He wished he could be unnerved and embarrassed as well, at least for the sake of Nick.

But as they entered the building, Nick following silently behind, Eric heard his favorite song playing and the Cuban felt so at home and at ease. He wished he could stash away his crime kit and just dance, lose himself, dragging Nick along with him.

Eric immediately and forcefully destroyed that mental image. _Where did that come from? _He didn't want to know. He was here on business and strictly business, nothing else. _Keep walking. You're just tired. _He managed to convince himself that on normal occasions, such a thought would have never even occurred to him.

Either way, it was clear that they were both cops and they certainly stood apart from the rest of the crowd. As if they were wearing flashing lights on their shirts, everyone seemed to move out of their way, not wanting any trouble. Maybe their gloves and kits gave it away, or possible even their CSI jackets. _Note to self: next time, try to be a little more obvious. _Eric snorted softly before leading Nick past the crowds.

The two CSIs made their way towards the back, passing the dance floors and small stage. Eric felt oddly cold knowing that Ellie Jenkins had performed up there so many times but never would again, because her body was chilly and still now, locked up in a drawer in the coroner's office. Taking a quick glance around, he supposed that the casino _was_ technically a casino, although it was more like a dance club with slot machines.

Nick's voice –"Las Vegas Crime Lab. Who's the manager?"- brought Eric crashing back down to Earth and they had somehow arrived to the bar, where a man in his late thirties was giving them both a dispassionate look. His eyes were heavy and gray- too tired and too beaten by the world to be truly happy.

"Well," he replied, giving them both a weary smile, "Here I thought you two were a nice lookin' couple." His voice sounded drained, even through the pounding rhythm and beat of the music that was currently blasting off the speakers. Nick's jaw set at the comment, but Eric merely gave the tired man a small smile.

"You take care of this place?" he asked.

Finally, the man shook his head. "Nah. You'd be lookin' for Miranda. Probably in the office, yelling at a government official over the phone."

"Thanks. And you are?"

"Steven Kellsie."

Eric took out a notebook and began jotting down some notes, black ink on white lined paper.

"The bar all you take care of?" It was the first thing Nick had said since they entered.

Steven Kellsie shrugged. "I clean up the occasional puke, fix the speakers when they short circuit."

"Ah. Handy man, janitor _and_ bartender. You're a jack of many trades, Mr. Kellsie."

Steven gave him a small, awkward smile and another shrug. "More like a man with too much time to spare. Waitin' for my Prince Charming to walk through those doors one day."

"Aren't we all?"

"You're partner there might disagree."

Eric laughed because it was true. Nick looked uncomfortable and it didn't seem as if he were looking for a prince of any sort. Nick gave Eric look of both annoyance and embarrassment before allowing the Floridian to continue.

"You know Ellie Jenkins?"

"Ellie? Certainly did. Sweet girl. Never let a lady down harshly, responsible, filled with big dreams. Hell of a worker too."

"When'd you last see her?"

"About three days ago."

"She seem upset?"

"A little. Not quite as upbeat as usual. I just figured it was a woman thing or she was just being over worked."

"She fight with anyone? Anyone come asking for her or anything like that?"

"No. We look out for things like that. I'd get you a security tape, but you'll have to ask Miranda first or she'll have my head."

"And where were you last time you saw her?"

"Me? I was here, like usual. Stopped a brawl and settled an argument between a man and the Black Jack table."

Eric gave Nick a look and Nick nodded his approval.

"Okay, thanks Mr. Kellsie. Here's our card if you remember anything and we might need to talk to you again, so don't go jetting across the country."

Steven Kellsie accepted the card before casting them both another look. Eric supposed he was kind of good looking, despite his worn appearance. "You sure you two ain't datin'?" he asked, glancing at Nick once before focusing his attention on Eric.

"It'd be news to us if we were," replied Eric, imagining the two of them going out to dinner and the thought making him smile. It was amusing, to say the very least.

"Don't s'ppose I could have your number?"

Eric paused a moment, dark eyes piercing the lonely bartender. He too was lonely and tired and just wanted someone who he could love without rules and limits. He told himself he was too young to feel that way; he should be filled with life and go to parties and have great times ahead, but he didn't. He had a feeling that Mr. Kellsie didn't either.

"I live in Miami," he finally replied, almost regretting his response when he saw the older man quickly look away before giving him a humiliated half smile.

"That's my worst rejection yet."

Eric laughed, only this time it was sympathetic. "Nah, seriously, I do. I'm here for Ellie Jenkins's case."

"Good luck to you then. Ellie was a joyful girl."

"I'm sure she was."

"Wanted to save gorillas in Africa and stop little kids starving on the street."

Their eyes met and Eric saw his true regret of another soul lost. A girl who wanted nothing except to improve the world and she was gone. There were so few of her left.

Nick and Eric left the bar and the lonely man behind them, making their way further to the back where Miranda Preston's office was located. Nick knocked on the door and they waited as a woman shouted "Just a moment!" before her voice directed itself back to what seemed to be a very heated phone conversation about an electricity bill.

"Would you have given him your number?" Nick suddenly asked, not looking at Eric as he focused his attention on the door instead, as if perhaps it held the answers instead of Eric himself.

Eric considered the question a moment. "Maybe. He seemed like a nice guy. Serious, wouldn't cheat. I just want a real relationship now."

"So you date guys?"

Eric cast the Texan a wary glance. "Does that bother you?" His words were polite but his tone gave him away. "_Am I offensive to you? You want to change partners so you won't feel revolted knowing we're three feet away from each other? Jesus Christ, do you think I'm contagious or something? You're just as imperfect as I am."_

"Me? No, of course not. No way."

"Oh. Because your sudden silence and transparent 'Me? No, of course not. No way.' was kind of worrying me."

"It really doesn't matter to me, Eric."

"Fine. I believe you."

Nick could tell that Eric really didn't, but Miranda Preston opened the door to her office and invited them in.

…

"Wanna hit breakfast?"

Obviously, his brain and mouth weren't working in conjunction with each other, because that's _not_ what Greg meant to say. What he meant was, "See you tomorrow, Ryan. I'll just head on to my empty apartment, feed my fish, and beat myself up about these thoughts I'm having about you." Then again, maybe that wouldn't have gone over much better. Next time, he should probably just keep his mouth shut altogether. And then maybe he could buy the Golden Gate Bridge for cheap, because the odds of owning a U.S. landmark and him not talking were about the same.

Ryan looked up and gave him a smile, gazing at him longer than necessary before quickly looking away and asking, "Don't you mean dinner?"

Greg grinned. "I'm still confused about it myself, and I've been working here six years. All I know is that I eat when I'm hungry. You like Denny's? A waitress there knows me by name."

"Sounds tempting."

"She tells the cooks I'm in law enforcement and I help get killers off the street, so they don't spit in my eggs like they do everyone else. Of course, I always forget to mention I sit in a lab for twelve hours and run trace, but what she doesn't know won't hurt her."

Ryan laughed as he packed his things in his bag and put away his lab coat, the long hours of the day finally wearing down on him.

"I don't know. It's kind of late." That's not what Ryan wanted to say either, but the sensible, rational side of him automatically spoke. It was late and he was tired, but he would much rather insensibly and irrationally grab breakfast with Greg instead. Still, he didn't want to appear too eager.

Greg tried to hide his slight disappointment. What was he hoping for anyway? "That's cool, dude." Ryan was right, but it still didn't seem like a good enough reason to go home to an empty apartment.

Ryan paused a moment before turning back, watching as Greg silently began putting away the rest of their work items. His hair was a little flatter after a long shift, and battling with DNA equipment didn't make it any easier.

"I only meant if you're not too tired…" Ryan began, but stopped when he realized how stupid he sounded. Did he sound pathetic? Lonely? He wanted to spend a little extra time with Greg. After all, he was a great conversationalist and he enjoyed working with him immensely.

"Me? Tired? Never."

"Then Denny's sounds really good. But do they really spit in your food?"

"Only to low tipping customers, my friend."

They walked out of the lab together, laughing as they did so. Those who were passing tried not to stare too obviously: both men were sort of leaning into each other and neither of them realized how perfect they fit together, how well they got along, and how happy they made each other in just two days. They didn't notice the small smiles, the quirked eyebrows; in other words, they were oblivious and somehow, that didn't matter at all.

Ryan quickly spotted the rest of their team clustered in pairs in the hall, working on various aspects of the case. He ignored his earlier feeling of inadequacy about being the odd one left out; he seemed to have gotten the high end of the deal and he wondered, very briefly, if Eric or Calleigh's partner was as terrific as Greg. He searched for Eric before finding him hunched over photos of Ellie Jenkin's crime scene, intent on devouring his package of Starbursts as he did so.

"Hey Eric. How's the case?"

Eric looked up and Ryan frowned. The older man definitely wasn't getting enough sleep, and the dark circles under his usually bright eyes gave it away.

"Hey Ryan." He glanced briefly over to Greg, standing just a few millimeters away from Ryan, before asking him, "You wouldn't happen to be the famous Greg Sanders, would you?"

Greg gave him a grin before leaning to shake the Cuban's hand. "The one and only. If you're a friend of Ryan's then I'll give you an autograph for free."

Eric shook his head before laughing. "Nah, I think I'm cool."

"Sure? My next worldwide tour starts next week."

"Tempting, very tempting." Eric turned his attention back to Ryan before titling his head in Greg's direction. "I like him."

Greg's shoulder tapped lightly against Ryan's. "Hear that? He likes me."

Ryan rolled his eyes at the both of them. "It's nice to know you like him, Eric. I wasn't aware I had to introduce you to everyone I know for your seal of approval."

"Not everyone," corrected Eric, beginning to unwrap a strawberry candy. "Just the ones that make you grin like an idiot." The words were spoken innocently and at first, Ryan didn't catch on.

"Grin like a-?" Ryan's eyes suddenly flew open and he stood rigid, making a mental note in his mind to kill Eric if he survived this humiliation in the first place. He made an abrupt change of topics, hoping to head out with as much dignity as he could salvage. "Heading to the hotel?" he asked evenly, giving Eric a stony look.

"In a couple minutes. You?"

"Actually, Greg and I are going to go get some breakfast." The silence that followed was louder than Ryan could imagine, and he sincerely hoped Greg didn't notice. It was a strange silence because it wasn't filled with an invite: an invitation for Eric to join them. Or Calleigh. Or anyone. However, it seemed as if Eric got the message loud and clear: Ryan wanted some down time, and he wanted it spent with Greg. Eric wasn't offended. It was the reverse, actually, and he fought away a sly, 'Oh, _I_ get it.' grin.

Eric knew it would be best to end the conversation. After all, Ryan and Greg would be hitting lunch soon enough if he didn't let them go.

"Ah. Sounds like fun. Do you have your room key? 'Cause if you come knocking at the door and I'm asleep, you're spending the night in the hallway."

"Gee, thanks for that," replied Ryan, smiling but still a little uneasy. "I've got a key. I'll see you in an hour or so."

"Okay, see you then. Don't get arrested."

"Well, thanks for ruining _that_ plan," Greg lightheartedly replied. "Guess holding up the local Seven Eleven's out of the picture. Ryan and I'll just have to find something better to do."

…

Ryan looked out the window of the restaurant, their knees slightly touching but neither was taking the initiative to move them. They had accidentally touched so many times that night that it really didn't matter at that point. At first, Ryan would quickly pull away and try in vain to hide a blush, acting as if scrambled eggs and French toast was the most fascinating thing on the planet.

But they began to fall in sync with one another, and suddenly touching knees seemed like a ridiculous thing to be worried over.

So they talked. Once they covered the subject of families, friends, and Miami versus Las Vegas, they began the subject of careers and schooling. They covered music, books, and it seemed as if one breakfast couldn't begin to give them enough time to talk about everything they wanted to. Ryan supposed it always boiled down to time.

"So how'd you become a CSI?" Greg asked over an empty plate of what used to be pancakes and sausage.

"I came up from patrol. I didn't like just arriving at a scene and waiting until the big guns got there. I wanted to stay with a case until it was closed. What about you? I hear your boss likes to lock you in the lab."

"I used to like it a lot more than I do now. It gets boring after a while. And techs are definitely under appreciated." He paused a moment before adding, "Plus, y'know, the lab exploded." His last statement was softer and Ryan nearly had to strain to hear it. Greg cleared his throat and then took a sip of his water (He never ordered coffee at a restaurant. It wasn't ever as good as his special stash.) He almost seemed embarrassed at the moment and didn't look Ryan in the eye.

"Your lab _exploded_?" Ryan asked, shock and concern written all over his face. "What happened? I mean, only if you want to talk about it. I could understand how you wouldn't want to think of it again."

Greg shrugged. "It's okay. Catherine left the fume hood on too long and too high and it just blew up all over the place."

"Were you in the lab when it happened?"

Greg nodded. "Sure was."

"Weren't you hurt?"

"I have a couple of scars, but I like to call them battle wounds. I just… wanted to get out of the lab. Sometimes I feel like I'm suffocating and it drives me nuts, so I pestered Grissom into letting me train to become a CSI. The only thing scarier than the lab is my fear of looking like an idiot in front of my boss, you know?"

Ryan could certainly empathize with that. "I could see why you would want to get out of there sometimes."

"They think I'm a freak. It's not offending or anything, I just want them to take me seriously." A comfortable pause before Greg looked at Ryan curiously. "We're about the same age. Does everyone in Miami pat you on the head too?"

Ryan frowned a little. "Actually, some don't speak to me at all. I tell them I'm not a replacement."

"They lost someone?"

"Tim Speedle. I came in after he was shot in a jewelry store and everyone's just trying to get used to the fact that he's gone. I don't mind the occasional cold shoulder, though. I just want to do my job properly."

"I guess we're both the odd guy out on the job, huh?"

"Yeah. But you're going to be a great CSI pretty soon. You're not just a DNA tech."

"And you're just not a replacement."

It felt good to hear those words.

They smiled at each other from across the table as seven o'clock hit and the sun rose and washed Las Vegas with light.

TBC.

…

A/T: Man, this chapter is killing me! I suppose it's alright, but it took an eternity (okay, maybe a week) to complete. Oh, well. It's the price I must pay for the brilliance that is Ryan/Greg. Hints of Warrick/Calleigh? Yes? No? Don't care? Without feedback, my mind will wander without direction and you do _not_ want that to happen.


	4. Absence of State

A/T: Here it is, friends. The fourth chapter of my badly characterized, poorly timed, shoddily written _CSI_ fanfic. It sort of depresses me to know that this is the greatest of all I've ever done. It doesn't exactly inspire confidence, does it? But hey- we do things because we love it, not necessarily because we're good at it.

In the matter of LJ Readers v. Calleigh/Warrick, this court must declare me guilty of not knowing what to do with my scattered ideas. I've decided against the C/W (sorry if I'm disappointing anyone!) It doesn't seem to fit right, but thanks for those who were enthusiastic.

I'm so thrilled everyone loves the Eric/Nick thing. I was a little hesitant at first but your support is definitely helping!

Disclaimer: In the event that one hasn't read my disclaimers the _first_ three times, I'll repeat it: I do not, never have, and never will own any _CSI_ show or character. I can barely hold onto my dignity. It's slowly falling away with every word I type.

Out With It  
Act Four: Absence of State

**I have seen only you, I have admired only you, I desire only you.  
**-Napoleon Bonaparte to Madam Marie Walewska, _1807_

"So."

Eric's voice was laced with something –_something_- that Ryan couldn't quite put his finger on. It was a mix of suspicion and amusement. The way Eric was grinning, that teasing look in his eyes meant only one thing: Ryan's late arrival to the hotel the morning before would certainly be the gossip of Calleigh and Yelina for the rest of the day, if not the week.

"So," Ryan echoed, giving Eric an odd look before checking to make sure he had his key card and grabbing his backpack, taking a quick inventory of its contents while consequently (if not purposely) avoiding Eric's eyes.

"So _someone_, who shall remain nameless, dragged themselves through that very door two hours after the rest of us crashed."

Ryan inwardly groaned. He knew this was coming and he was dreading every moment of it. The morning before, he told himself that he shouldn't stay out for more than an hour at the very most, else he'd face the consequences; consequences being Eric's endless teasing. He _knew_ better, but the time spent with Greg felt like too little. So engrossed they were by merely talking to one another that Ryan had realized that the minutes had flown by and two hours had already passed. They could have certainly stayed longer, but Ryan knew he had to get to the hotel and catch a little sleep before work began. That, and the longer he stayed out, the more relentless Eric would be.

"I had breakfast with Greg," Ryan explained. "Or dinner. Actually, I don't what it was. He calls it 'brinner'."

"For two hours?" pried Eric as they proceeded to leave their hotel room on schedule, making their way towards the elevator.

"We talked." Did he need to elaborate further? Frankly, he didn't want to. Eric knew that if Ryan didn't like someone, he wouldn't spend two hours trying to get away from them.

"About what, religion and politics? Dude, it was a two _hours_. It takes the average over worked and under paid employee five minutes to down a plate of eggs and bacon before moving on."

"I know how long we took, Eric. He's an interesting guy."

Ryan tried not to let the defensiveness in his tone be heard. The last thing he wanted Calleigh to hear was that he sort of kind of maybe had breakfast with a nice, interesting guy. She would poke and prod every last detail out of him until she left bruises.

"So you guys talked about DNA swabs and finger printing?"

"Maybe."

Eric laughed as the elevator slid open and they entered, Ryan promptly pressing the down button.

"Didn't know you were so secretive."

"Didn't know you were so snoopy."

"Okay, okay," Eric replied, holding up his hands in surrender but his smile never wavering. "I can take a hint."

"Calleigh's been rubbing off on you. I never knew you were the kind to dig into people's personal lives."

Eric laughed as the elevator gave a little "ding" and the doors opened up to reveal the first floor of their hotel.

"Personal lives? So breakfast was personal?"

"Eric!" Ryan protested, shooting Eric an embarrassed glare before quickly walking out of the elevator. How humiliating. Had Calleigh told him? Did Eric know he was…? Ryan didn't want to think about it. He did _not_ want his personal life to be the hot gossip of the week. Why couldn't anyone understand that?

"That's not what I meant, dude. You're not that kind of guy. I'm sorry."

He knew Eric would never laugh at him about this, even now that Ryan's cheeks were a deep crimson, sharp against his pale skin. Ryan wished he could blow it off, but honestly, he felt like defending Greg more than anything.

"Greg's not that kind of guy either," he heard himself say. He winced before he even finished saying it, realizing how it sounded and wishing he hadn't spoken at all. He met Eric's surprised expression for about two seconds before looking away again.

"Hm. I see." That was all Eric said as they emerged from the building and into the bright sunset of Nevada. The silence that followed was heavy and Ryan was grateful that Eric was a true friend and knew when not to keep digging for answers. But the conversation was still left unresolved and neither could work when in that state.

"Eric…" Ryan gave him a look before stopping dead in his tracks and turning towards the Cuban, solemnity radiating off every aspect of his stance, expression, tone. It was true that he was sometimes timid, but he could barely believe this situation himself and he absolutely would not allow Greg to be hurt by any gossip that was inadvertently spread.

"Don't tell Cal. She's the sweetest girl to ever live, but she'll start talking and won't stop. Got it?"

"Hey, your secret's safe with me. This conversation never happened. As far as I'm concerned, you came in twenty minutes after I crashed because you grabbed a bite from a fast food joint with a co-worker."

Ryan tried to fight off his smile, but in the end, failed. "Sounds like a great alibi. Thanks."

"Not a problem," he replied. "But I –uh- I was curious about something. If it's not, y'know, too personal."

Eric quickly hailed a cab at their curb and Ryan felt his stomach clench, because he somehow knew what was coming. He didn't want to face it, but he certainly couldn't run away.

"What's that?"

"Are you…"

Eric looked as uncomfortable as Ryan felt. Was he what? Ryan wanted to know but didn't want to answer. The taller man couldn't seem to find the right words and was quiet for a few moments. Instead, other conversations of those passing by filled the gap and pieces of gossip, news, and luaghter came and went with the sea of people along side them.

"I mean, not that it matters, but I kind of- wondered, maybe, that if you're… Do you like women?" he asked, unable to give it any fancy phrasing and instead just laying it out on the table.

Ryan swallowed. "Uhm…" He coughed and suddenly wished a cab would just pull up already. Better yet, lose control of the acceleration and just run him over.

"You don't have to answer."

Ryan laughed a little at Eric's worried expression, worried that he had stepped over the line.

"If I don't answer, doesn't that answer your question anyway?" Ryan asked, his frantic nervousness dying away to a mellow, accepting sickness. Eric knew. Ryan couldn't change that. He was out to someone else and God, he hated it!

"Not necessarily. But I'm not a judge, man. Even if you're bi or gay or whatever, doesn't matter to me. You're a good guy and a great CSI."

"Fine." Ryan took a deep breath and turned towards Eric. "I like guys."

There.

He said it.

Three little words.

Eric looked almost… impressed. Okay, that wasn't exactly what Ryan was expecting, but he doubted that Eric would start running down the street with his arms flailing in the air, screaming that one of his best friends was less than straight.

"You do?" Eric asked as a cab finally, _finally_ pulled up.

Ryan didn't reply, merely opened the door to the cab and Eric walked around, following Ryan's actions, hopping in and buckling up.

"Yes, I do. Are you okay with that, or should I pack up my stuff and move to another state?"

Eric gave Ryan an amused smile before looking out the window, towards the hustle and bustle of Las Vegas. It looked like a normal city in the light of the sun, but when night came, it morphed into something bright, grand, a little tacky, and a lot sinister.

"It's never up to anyone, Wolfe. Would it make you feel better to know that we're both in the same boat? Or would it weird you out?"

Ryan tried not to choke on his own oxygen. Was Eric saying what he thought he was saying? It was possible that Ryan was over analyzing every syllable that left Eric's mouth, but he wasn't sure that was the case.

"What?" he asked, trying to remain as calm as possible. "Are you saying that you're… like me?"

"Nick kind of guessed last night. You know how Ellie Jenkins last occupation was at The Alaska?"

Ryan nodded, listening intently to Eric's story.

"Well, The Alaska is the hotspot for people like you and me, my friend. He saw that I wasn't freaked out and he just sort of… guessed. I told him just because someone doesn't get KKK on everyone in there doesn't mean they were gay."

"So you didn't tell him at first?"

"Didn't need to. But he was professional about it, so it could've gone a lot worse. I figured the subject of homosexuality was going to come up a lot in the next few weeks anyway, so I didn't exactly deny it."

"Not to offend anyone from Texas, but wasn't Nick a little…"

"Rigid and uncomfortable? Absolutely."

"Oh."

"That's what he said."

"Well, maybe it's not his phobia. You said he acted professional. Maybe he's really okay with it but doesn't want to bother you."

"So maybe the glass is half full. I like your optimism."

"Maybe he likes you and just happens to be wanting to ask you on a classy date to IHOP."

It was Eric's turn to blush and he stared out the window again, unable to hide a small smile.

"Classier than Denny's, you mean?"

"I never knew you to be a comedian."

"I get delirious when I'm hungry. My internal clock says I should be gobbling down some steaks about now."

"I guess that means we're hitting the vending machines again."

Yep. They were definitely back and their secrets were revealed to each other. Somehow, Ryan wasn't as panicked as he thought he'd be. They were real friends and it felt good.

"I just hope they haven't run out of Skittles."

…

"Is this where I'll find you from now on?"

Eric jumped a little, startled at the voice and nearly dropping his case file in the process. It had been a quiet, uneventful, and almost peaceful first ten minutes of work that night. He had been contently pouring over the DNA results of last night's casino excursion and, embarrassingly enough, downing a bag of Skittles and cup of coffee as he did so.

Eric quickly swallowed his mouthful of candies before looking up from his stooped position, giving Nick a somewhat guilty smile.

"There's a vending machine, isn't there?" he asked lightly.

Nick rolled his eyes slightly before taking a seat across from the Cuban, stealing a few Skittles in the process.

"Don't you ever have a real breakfast?" Nick asked, a sweet southern drawl to his voice. Eric was almost reminded of Cal, but of course, it wasn't the same.

"I do in Miami." The response sounded lame, but it was also some sort of conformation: _I do in Miami._ Of course he ate regularly in Miami. That's because he _lived_ in Miami, which was why he wouldn't allow himself to find anyone significant in Las Vegas. It would be complicated and messy and he was too tired for that. Even if it meant being lonely, it was the preferable alternative to being angry and upset all the time.

The reasoning was perfect and the logic was flawless.

So he didn't bother to ask himself why it didn't seem to make any sense.

"Well, since you're here on time tonight," Nick began, placing some colored printouts on the table, "I figured we could head out to The Alaska again."

"Oo, a date."

Nick gave Eric a look and the Floridian immediately wished he hadn't spoken. _Trying to lighten the mood, huh? Great going. You're about as subtle as an exploding bomb. _Eric resisted the urge to kick himself. What was he thinking? No jokes, no quips, no nothing, especially not after the night before.

"More like DNA swabs from all the employees. As I recall, the real janitor couldn't account for his whereabouts that night."

"Yeah, but Ellie Jenkins was murdered in Miami," replied Eric, tapping the side of his coffee cup with his index finger thoughtfully. "Even if their alibis were sketchy, they would have to have gotten on the plane to have killed her."

"So we need the tapes from the Miami airport."

"Which means we need Yelina and Warrick."

As if both reading each other's minds, they immediately stood and began towards the A/V lab, where Warrick had been going over hours of airport footage. Most of it was meaningless and they weren't even sure what they were looking for, but with a leap of faith and a little luck, something might pop out at them.

So far, though, nothing had been of any use, and as Nick and Eric sat down from across the screens, watching black and white footage of hundreds of people boarding and buying tickets, it seemed as if the case had run smack into a brick wall.

"Hey Warrick," Nick greeted as he and Eric entered the usually dark A/V lab. Warrick and Yelina looked up from some screens as Archie fast-forwarded through an hour or so of footage.

"Hello," Yelina replied. She gave Eric a small smile before motioning towards some chairs. "Pull up a seat, gentlemen. We were just about to break out the popcorn."

"So I guess we're getting nothing from the tapes?" asked Nick as he followed Yelina's invitation and pulled up a rolling office chair.

Warrick rubbed his eyes and yawned. "Yelina and I have been watching this for almost a day. The airport has a dozen cameras in the lobby alone. With all the security measures, we have dozens of tapes we need to go through, but I have a feeling we're going to wind up with the same result."

"The result being a whole lot of nothing?" Eric guessed. Warrick nodded in response. "Right. We see where Ellie Jenkins enters the lobby still wearing her show dress and buys a ticket at a booth. Thing is, she doesn't have any luggage. Not even a purse."

"So I guess tracking down any lost personal belongings is out of the question," Nick murmured. "Even with these surveillance tapes, we still don't have anything."

There was a silence for a few minutes, the whirring of the tape machine the only sound in the room. It was almost disheartening- no one wanted to leave Ellie Jenkins without justice, but they couldn't seem to find even the slightest clue as to what could help them discover her murderer. The four CSIs continued to watch the screen, despite the fact they all knew they would gain nothing from it. They couldn't think of anything else they could do to solve the case: there were no prints, no paper trails, not even a good, old-fashioned suspect.

It wasn't until Gil Grissom threw open the door that the four looked up, tearing their attention away from the screen.

"We need a Plan B," he announced and then turned and left the room. He left no space for questions or arguments. Yelina and Eric exchanged curious looks, but Warrick and Nick knew that when Grissom got an idea, they could only follow.

So they rose from their seats and did exactly that.

…

"Look who decided to listen to his alarm," said a voice when Ryan entered the lab.

"I thought we went over this story already," Ryan replied, grinning at Greg before making his way over to the coffee maker, where he knew a fresh hot pot would be brewing for them both.

"We did, but it's just so much more fun to relentlessly tease you instead."

"I see you've been taking pointers from Eric. Teasing me relentlessly is his favorite hobby as well."

Greg smiled in return as he meandered over to Ryan, his body just barely brushing with the other's as he leaned against the wall casually, watching as Ryan made his coffee.

"What exciting set of prints do we get to run today?"

"I note the sarcasm in your voice."

"Good. No one else has."

Ryan smiled slightly. He knew Greg was impatient to get back into the field, but the overwhelming amount of DNA involved wasn't giving him the opportunity.

Ryan turned from the making of his coffee to reply with something witty or charming, two things he so rarely was, but the moment he turned he realized how close they were actually standing. Their noses were almost touching, which meant their lips weren't far behind and Ryan practically jumped out of skin, because suddenly Greg leaned forward a mere inch and a half and their lips connected.

That, and he dropped his coffee.

He didn't notice that part at first; rather, the warm lips that were on his own was the only thing on his mind. This perfect man was kissing him, so what did he do? Ryan, being of the logical, level headed, Spontaneity-is-the-Devil psyche quickly broke away. He was horrified someone might have saw, and even more horrified of caring. He immediately regretted breaking away; it wasn't long enough and in reality, he felt like being a little reckless for once.

_You didn't, _he told himself, mentally pleading with God that when he opened his eyes, his coffee would still be in a cup, on a small table, steaming and not spilt all over him. Only he was hyper aware of the hot liquid that was on his pants leg and shirt. It was searing, brown, and probably staining his second pair of perfectly good clothing. Obviously, God wasn't taking requests today.

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

Greg had kissed him. Greg kissed _him._ And now the other man was looking at him with a worried expression; Greg opened his mouth to say something, but no words came. It seemed as if both their states of mind had taken a leave of absence.

"I'm sorry," Ryan whispered, finally managing to find some words hidden deep within his autopilot mind. He wasn't talking about the kiss, such as it was. He was sorry he couldn't control himself better, he was sorry that his brain wasn't working right, and he was sorry he was having feelings for one Greg Sanders. He immediately stepped away, breaking away from the other man. "About the coffee. It's… it's all over the place."

"That's okay," replied Greg, his voice uncharacteristically soft. He knew, as Ryan did, that something more than a kiss had just happened between them, only neither man could place what it was. "It was probably my fault."

"I'll –uh- grab the paper towels from… somewhere," Ryan said, quickly turning, his dignity fracturing with every step he took. _I can't believe how monumentally stupid you can be _he screamed to himself. They were quiet as he began going through the cabinets, seeing where some extra napkins might be lying about, hoping the sudden ice could be broken.

"There are some paper towels in the fourth drawer to your left," said Greg, finally managing to find his voice amidst the heavy, awkward silence that had suddenly filled every crevice of the room. Ryan didn't respond, merely followed Greg's directions and true to his word, there they were, waiting to clean up the mess he was so good at leaving behind.

"I'm… really sorry to make such a mess." Ryan heard himself speaking, but he couldn't make himself look up to meet Greg's eyes. Instead, he got on his hands and knees and began soaking up his second coffee disaster in the last four days; his first, if you all remember, was in Miami with Calleigh.

"Here, let me help."

"I've got it."

"Ryan…"

The thick tension was thankfully cut by Calleigh herself, poking her head in through the lab doors. She smiled brightly at them both and opened her mouth to speak before catching sight of the disarray. She didn't need to know what happened because it didn't matter; she knew Ryan only got nervous about one thing, nervous enough to make a mess like this. Her eyes automatically shot to Ryan and she sort of grinned at him. Ryan knew he would be grilled later, asking the why's and when's of the entire catastrophe. He returned her look with one of distress: _Please, say something. Break the pressure._

"Hey you two," she vibrantly began, quickly scanning Greg before speaking again, talking as if she couldn't practically _feel_ the heavy silence. "The Bosses are calling us. This case needs a makeover and I think Grissom might have a new plan. We're in his office when you guys finish up."

She gave them both another look before shoot a worried glance over to Ryan. Knowing she couldn't say anything about it without making it worse, she gave them both another slightly confused smile before leaving.

Greg watched as Ryan quickly finished cleaning up the spill before shrugging out of his lab coat, still not looking at him, almost as if he were ashamed, and left the room without a word.

Greg could do nothing but follow, worry now with every step he took.

…

The door creaked extra loudly, of course, the way all doors do when someone comes in late. The meeting had started when Greg and Ryan tried to sneak in, but it was an office and they would have been noticed anyway. Ryan quickly took a seat next to Calleigh, while Greg choose to hang in the back, neither speaking to each other.

Gil looked over his glasses at the two, but choose not to say anything in terms of their tardiness. Greg gave him a look: _You treat us like crap the rest of the time. Want to yell at us for being late at a meeting where we aren't even needed? Sure. Go ahead. Try it._

Grissom wisely looked back down at his notes, away from Greg's obvious somber and moody expression. "I have a feeling we've hit a dead end when it comes to Ellie Jenkins case. We don't know what or who we're looking for, so I propose we turn this around and give it a new angle."

"And how do you suggest we go about that?" asked Catherine, holding her case file but not actually reading it. They all had case files, but they were useless, filled to the brim with information they couldn't use yet.

"We've been trying to get Ellie Jenkins to tell us something. The question is, why would someone want to kill her? She had good friends, a good working relationship, and no significant other to speak of. What's the motive?"

"Maybe it was a random mugging. A junkie needed some quick cash," replied Nick. "Saw her in Miami, grabbed their gun and took her money when they were finished."

"That's a good theory. There wasn't a purse or wallet at the scene in Miami," Calleigh replied, twisting the ends of her blonde hair around her finger in thought. "It was two shots to the chest. Kind of cold and impersonal. A lot of people who aren't familiar with guns just shoot blindly."

It _was_ a good theory, but all ten knew that such a predicament wasn't the case. It was never so simple.

All were silent, until Greg finally spoke. His voice lacked its usual enthusiasm and Ryan couldn't bring himself to look at the lab tech. He felt sick knowing that he was part of the problem.

"She didn't have any luggage, she didn't have a purse, and all she was wearing was the dress from The Alaska. She walked in and bought a ticket to the first available flight. She was running from someone. There wasn't any time to pack for a Florida vacation."

Sara nodded, biting her lip. She gave Greg a look, one mixed with admiration and concern. She could tell he wasn't exactly the ball of energy he usually was, and that worried her. "Greg's right. No one just takes a flight for the fun of it, especially not without a change of clothes or toothbrush."

"So we start with the teller who sold her the ticket," said Warrick, nodding, beginning to see bits of a puzzle that were coming together. "Maybe they saw someone following her."

"We've been looking at the casino too hard. Her troubles were at the airport," agreed Grissom. He glanced over at Horatio, who had been silent, listening to the theories and what-ifs. "What's your opinion, Mr. Caine?"

Horatio took a moment to respond. "She died on a motel roof. Someone had to have gotten on that plane to follow her. They might have even checked into the motel."

"Okay then," Catherine said, rising from her seat, a new energy now buzzing around the room, affecting all but two. "We've got a new plan. We start at the airport and work our way backwards."

…

The lab.

Again.

Ryan didn't want to be there, and Greg didn't look that thrilled either.

The heavy silence had returned with a vengeance and wouldn't stop biting at them. Neither man could imagine working this way and Greg, ever the talker, finally cleared his throat, because enough was enough. He had been an idiot to kiss him, but he felt propelled and in the moment. Which was stupid as well, because rash things were always regretted later. He could only hope that he didn't ruin their relationship for good.

"I'm sorry." The words were truthful and Ryan managed to look up and even meet his eyes. Greg sounded as miserable as Ryan felt. "The kiss was a mistake. I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable." It was dumb thing to say, and he knew it. Of _course_ he made Ryan uncomfortable, thus the lack of their usual words and banter.

"Don't worry," Ryan replied, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry I spilt coffee all over the place."

"That's not your fault either. I caught you off guard."

"A little," Ryan admitted, finally smiling at him. Greg tried to return in, but in truth, that smile was killing him.

"Are… are we good? I'd understand if you would prefer to work with Archie or Hodges or… someone else."

"We're okay. You're… the most fun person around here. You're a great friend and we work well together."

Greg inwardly winced. _Friend. That's all you are to anyone._

"So. Wanna hit breakfast?"

This time, Greg didn't question whether or not his brain and mouth were working together properly, because _this_ time, he knew what he was asking. It felt pretty good and he actually wasn't that nervous when he approached Ryan. Why should he be? It was all or nothing, yes or no. Greg wouldn't die if the invitation was turned down, but going home to an apartment full of fish to be miserable by himself wasn't exactly appealing.

In his mind, Greg knew he was asking Ryan to breakfast for all the wrong reasons, but Ryan would never know about any feelings the CSI might have for him and even if he did, Greg would never make any romantic move. Well, besides the kiss. The repercussions that would inevitably follow could leave behind a mess too big for any two people to deal with. One-night stands weren't Greg's thing any more, even if it meant that his only company outside of work happened to be his fish and his neighbor in apartment 12B, the nice old lady that remembered his birthday last year.

Breakfast was an extra hour or so to flirt (even if Ryan never caught it), stare (even if Ryan never saw it), and actually talk (because there was more to a relationship than just sex. Greg ignored the fact that they weren't actually in a relationship, which he considered a minor detail at best.)

"Is this déjà vu?" Ryan asked, grinning up at him from his place at the counter, his belongings now spread out in an organized fashion all over the surface. Extra books, extra files, extra pens. It was a good thing too, because Hodges just finished stealing Greg's last known writing utensil and that pack of manila envelopes had somehow disappeared into the deep, dark recesses of his desk drawer.

"Déjà vu? Perhaps. Or it could be me, Greg Sanders, asking _you,_ Ryan Wolfe, if you would honor me with your presence at a table where food will be served."

"I like that. The 'honor me with your presence' really gave it the extra flair."

Greg grinned as well, leaning over the other side of the counter and making himself content by merely watching Ryan work.

"How much flair would I need to make you accept?"

"I don't know. Rumor is that you danced around wearing a showgirl's headdress once. That would add a lot of flair to whatever you're saying."

Greg titled his head, as if considering the idea. "You drive a hard bargain. It's unfortunate I left my headdress in my other lab coat."

Ryan laughed, giving Greg an amused look before returning to his task at hand. "Denny's?" he asked, and Greg let out a breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding. Ryan's inquiry meant "yes", and that's all Greg could possibly hope for. Ryan was obviously man enough to have breakfast with a guy who, two minutes ago, hadn't been able to speak to him due to shame. And Ryan was also dedicated. This wouldn't affect their work, and Greg was thankful.

"I figure I'd show my classy manners and allow you to explore the culinary delights of the local IHOP."

"IHOP?" asked Ryan, quirking an eyebrow. He had a feeling that this would become an of-the-norm event: breakfast –wait, dinner- no, "brinner", with Greg. He wished he could make himself care or even rationalize, but before the default "logic Ryan" could say anything, the rarely seen "spontaneous Ryan" sprang forth.

"Sounds great. Sure you're not too tired?"

Greg merely gave him a look and Ryan was hit with a suspicion that the other man was probably _never_ tired.

It _was_ like déjà vu, really, as he and Greg made their way down the hall and towards the break room to sign off for the day. Once again, unbeknownst to the two, Calleigh was carefully watching them from over the top of her surveillance report, elbowing Yelina slightly before nodding towards them both. Archie was ignoring the laughter of the two women and he idly wondered whether should alert Greg to the fact that he and Ryan were the next hot item. David Hodges merely rolled his eyes.

Ryan knocked slightly on the doorframe before leaning against it. Eric was sitting at a table, reading the DNA comparisons both men had finished earlier, chewing on some gum he had beaten out of the machine.

"Hey Eric," said Ryan, observing the Cuban at his very worst. A wrinkled shirt, sloppy hair, and dark circles under his eyes made him worse for wear. Ryan gave him a sympathetic look before he spoke again. "Continuing your healthy candy diet, I see."

"And 'funny Ryan' emerges. You are a man of many talents, my friend."

"Sorry. I couldn't resist."

"I can see you're all broken up about it."

Ryan smiled a little, but it didn't last. In the end, his concern for Eric overrode everything else. "You look beat. Greg and I are heading out to the IHOP and you're welcome to join us. They serve real food."

Eric momentarily turned his attention to Greg, who was standing next to the darker haired CSI. The fact was that Ryan was probably one of Eric's best friends, and despite the tempting offer of food that didn't come from colorful wrappers, he wasn't about to tag along. You had to be both deaf and blind to get the vibe coming from them both. Eric would only mess things up, and that's the last thing he wanted for Ryan.

"I'm good. Thanks, though." He turned to Greg, giving him a small wave. "How's it going, man? I hear Ryan axed the music."

Greg grinned. "We compromised. No heavy death metal and we keep it a reasonable volume, so he brought the Beach Boys."

"Wow. That's stretching it pretty far when it comes to Ryan."

"I pride myself in being a bad influence. I'm sure your boss will thank me later."

"I'm sure _I'll_ thank you later when he decides to blast out some Marilyn Manson or something." Eric rose from his seat, fighting back a yawn. "Anyway, I think I'll call it a night. Nick and I get to start fingerprinting parts of the airport tomorrow."

"You hide your enthusiasm well," observed Ryan. Of course, finger printing ticket booths and looking for blood in restrooms didn't exactly sound like a day worth getting up for.

"Need help? Dusting? Blood spatter? If you want, we'll be the first to dive into the sewers," offered Greg, Eric's absolute exhaustion not lost upon him either.

Ryan turned and gave Greg a look, crossing his arms across his chest as he did so. "_We?_" he asked, in a you've-got-to-be-kidding tone of voice.

Greg gave him an innocent look. "But I thought you _liked_ hiking through miles of raw sewage."

Eric laughed as the two approached the brink of serious banter. He held up his hands as a peace offering. "No sewer diving will be required, boys. We're progressing."

Eric didn't want to dwell on how much or little they were actually progressing in terms of the Ellie Jenkins case. He wanted Ryan to be comfortable and not have to worry about his nonexistent failures when it came to solving her murder. If anything, Eric was the one failing. "So you two are hitting the IHOP?" he asked, hoping to change the subject.

"We certainly are," replied Greg, smiling widely and slinging his arm around Ryan's neck. "Ryan and I are escaping to a wonderful place where other pancake lovers such as ourselves can eat and not have to hear about low carb dieting."

"It's nice to know you two lovebirds are getting along so well."

"Eric!" said Ryan, remembering his embarrassment from last night and wondering if he should bother saying goodnight to anyone anymore. Sneaking out a back door somewhere seemed more logical, merely because his best friends wouldn't be there to hint at secret relationships between himself and almost-complete strangers.

"Aw, Ryan. There's no need to be ashamed of us," Greg lightly retorted, following Eric's lead. "Just imagine what our children will look like."

Eric gave Ryan an innocent look. Ryan didn't return it.

"Anyway, I just came by to invite you to breakfast or something," Ryan continued through not-quite-gritted teeth. He knew he must have been as red as a tomato and he hoped no one noticed. "I'll see you at the hotel in a few hours."

"You have your room key?"

"Yes, mother. And I'll look both ways before crossing the street."

"I'm just saying that I'm dead serious about the hallway deal."

"I'll see you in a little while. Get some sleep."

"I will, I will. Now get out of here before you starve to death."

"Want me to bring you back anything?"

"Sure. Whatever's on special would be great. I'll pay you back."

Ryan gave Eric a look that read he would clearly not allow any payback of any kind before he and Greg left. Eric sighed before sitting back down. He hoped Ryan wasn't getting into anything he wouldn't be able to get out of again.

…

Ryan tried not to be uncomfortable in front of Greg when it came to Eric's teasing, but the "lovebird" comment was just beginning to dig beneath his skin and for a few minutes, Ryan couldn't think of a word to say. Coupled with the earlier kiss, he began to think that this entire breakfast idea was bad one.

But as they walked, talking about nothing in particular, Ryan found it hard to be uncomfortable around Greg. So they continued on for a few blocks and Ryan's discomfort evaporated into the thick night air of Las Vegas. If they accidentally brushed shoulders or hands, so be it. It didn't matter. It was just them, and somehow Ryan couldn't make himself feel wrong about it. Kiss or no kiss, they were still friends.

"So Eric and you seem to be really good friends," Greg commented as they strolled down, hands jammed in his pockets and donning a sweatshirt to fight off the cold that sometimes crept in from the desert.

"Yeah, he's great. When I first signed on, he wasn't exactly jumping to be my best friend or anything."

"Because of Tim?"

"They were a team and I took over after he died. I didn't blame anyone for how they treated me. I probably would have acted the same way if I knew Tim like they did."

"You two are hitting it off now, though."

Ryan laughed. "That's us. Practically joined at the hip, unfortunately for Eric."

"Should I be jealous?" Greg asked lightly, although he wondered if Ryan and Eric really _did_ have something he should be jealous over. After all, Eric was a good-looking guy with a charming personality and he wouldn't blame Ryan if he was swept away. Greg was half decent looking with very little charm to work with. Instead, he was just weird.

"Jealous of Eric?" Ryan couldn't help but laugh again at the mere thought. "I don't think so. I guess I should count myself lucky that he and I are friends, but trust me, there's very little to be jealous over. He keeps stealing my pens."

"Ah. You realize you should buy some stock in BiC or something."

"There is nothing wrong with carrying around extra pens."

"Two is extra. Nineteen counts as excess."

"How would you know?"

Greg shrugged innocently. "I needed a pen today. I grabbed one from your bag and just happened to notice the millions of others you carried around."

"I don't have nineteen pens."

Greg shrugged innocently. "You used to. Now you only have eighteen because I really needed something to write with."

Ryan spotted the blue and white lights of IHOP, their glow promising real food besides that of Greg's (admittedly spectacular) coffee and Skittles. They entered (Greg propping the door open for Ryan, ever the gentlemen) and were met by a waitress with bleached blonde hair and dark roots, white teeth, and very tired eyes.

"Hi. How many in your party?"

"Two please," replied Greg. "Sanders." The woman nodded before jotting it down in the notebook, her long, fake nails clicking against her pencil.

"That'll be forty five minutes."

"Forty five minutes?" asked Ryan, vaguely wondering if he could sit around for such an extended period. "That's a long time."

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but that's usually the minimum wait time in the morning."

"I don't suppose the fact that we're in law enforcement is going to help us any? You know, get us a great table and a meal for free?" asked Greg, although Ryan could tell he wasn't up for that long of a wait either.

She smiled and laughed a little. "I'm afraid not."

"Then we're sorry to take up your time. Thanks anyway," he replied, before steering Ryan out of the restaurant and back to the street.

"No breakfast there, I guess," mused Ryan. "I saw an Arby's down the road, if you can handle roast beef this early in the morning."

"You know, you need a real taste of Las Vegas," replied Greg as they began walking back down to where they parked, Greg's arm somehow finding its way around Ryan's neck in friendly, we're-just-two-guys-lookin'-for-grub sort of way. Because Ryan knew in any other circumstance, that's what two guys would be like. And they were just two guys. So it was a bad, bad idea to lean into any sort of embrace Greg offered.

"I know a spot that serves the greatest pancakes known to Nevada and there's no waiting time, decent prices, and fan girls won't mob us the moment we step inside."

Ryan couldn't stop his laughter. "And where's that? The middle of the desert?"

Greg grinned in return. "My place."

Somewhere, Ellie Jenkin's ghost told herself that maybe her death wasn't a complete waste.

TBC.

…

A/T: My promise: Chapter five no more beating around the bush! Will Nick make his move? (Or Eric? I haven't decided yet.) Will Ellie Jenkins's case ever get solved? (Of course it will!) Will chapter 5 not completely suck? (I make no promises.) I know this seems to be dragging along, but I wanted the timing to be at least a little realistic. I've never been one for the "I've known you five minutes, so let's sleep together!" pieces. And writing a murder mystery is so much harder than it looks!

Tune in next time! Same bat time, same bat channel!


	5. City of Sin

A/T: Who-hoo! I can't believe that I'm actually on the fifth chapter! Thanks for all the love and support. (Miserable as I am to admit it, without my writing and reviewers, I'm a very sad little person.)

Disclaimer: I've given up on making these amusing (mainly because I'm just not that funny), so here it is: I don't own (never have, never will) any _CSI_ show or character. There. It took a lot of therapy hours to finally admit that.

Out With It  
Act 5: City of Sin

**I tremble for what we are doing. Are you sure you shall love me forever? I fear and I hope.  
**-Lady Mary Pierrepoint to Edward Wortley, _1712_

He wasn't there.

Eric could have guessed this, but still, his hotel room was empty and he knew that if he called Ryan's cell, he would have caught him in an embarrassing, I'm-with-Greg-but-not-_with_-Greg moment, and the last thing he wanted to do was ruin whatever he and Greg had going on. He was elated that Ryan might have found someone significant, someone worthwhile, but the other side of the situation was not as blissfully easy to ignore. Ryan would be hurt when they had to head back to Miami, because Ellie Jenkins's case would either be solved or freeze over and either way, they couldn't stay here.

Not here.

Not in Las Vegas.

Eric sighed. He was tired and certainly needed some shuteye, but sleep was evading him yet again. The burdening case, Ryan's inevitable heartbreak, this uncomfortable state of affairs with Nick- it was keeping him awake when all he wanted was to fall head first into a deep, coma-like sleep.

He tossed in bed, his sigh painfully loud in the empty room with Ryan absent. Listlessly, he thought about the things he could do to induce sleepiness: watch reruns of whatever's on at six in the morning, go to a movie and get hopelessly lost in the process, or risk being spotted buying whatever cheesy novel the lobby bookstore was currently selling.

Or he could just lie there until shift started again.

Since seeing a movie would have taken entirely too much effort and buying the latest romance novel would have practically been a crime, he figured he might as well make do with what he had: some energy grain bars he had stolen from Calleigh and a T.V. with reruns that left much to be desired.

Trying to sleep was making him even more restless, even more aware that he was exhausted but not tired. It was apparent in the silence of the room how alone he was, and it was even more obvious that his mind would always wander back to this… situation with Nick. It was difficult because whatever opinions Nick might have of him could possibly be true and that was the last thing Eric wanted. He liked Nick, and that was the problem. He _liked_ Nick. And God, he was an idiot for even allowing himself to get involved in anything that could conflict with the case. This was his fault and now it was his responsibility to think of something brilliant to settle it, making it so Horatio wasn't giving him those strange "I know exactly what's going on" looks.

With another sigh, he kicked his blankets off and padded towards the television, attempting to make himself as comfortable as he could on the uncomfortably cold and lumpy couch, complete with a bad upholstery choice.

He pressed the power button on the remote control.

"_That's right! The amazing, ten in one storage system can hold up to twent-''_

No.

"_Shirley, would you look at this? It's a fantastic deal! Now these aren't actually real pearls, but look at the glow and how it offsets your skin! These manmade pearls look so authentic but are only a fraction of the price! We are going to sell out of these quick ladies, so you'd better get on that phone right now and-"_

No.

"…_aren't enough natural resources left to continue the SUV craze. Reports indicate that the warming trend in the United States could be a direct result of fuel emission. It's unclear on whether the government will outlaw these gas-guzzling vehicles, but a plan was brought to the Supreme Court this Friday. In other news-''_

No.

"_God is power! God is light! And when the devil comes to take your soul, when the Devil comes offering the temptations of the world, you look Satan straight in the eye and resist the temptation of si-''_

Definitely not.

Finally, after two more channels of badly animated cartoons and an offering for free hair replacement treatments, he stopped at a _Miami Vice_ rerun.

It struck him how sad he was- a single guy, tired and lackluster in his hotel room in Las Vegas, alone and watching cop shows that had been canceled decades ago. Had the world made him so weary already? Shouldn't he be out at a club with bright lights and pounding music? Even the _thought _of club hopping made him tired and he realized he was double his age already, practically ready to put in the retirement slip.

But Ryan and Greg were blatantly hitting it off, Calleigh and Sara were joined at the hip, and Horatio had actually laughed today, something he hadn't done since… since Tim died. Eric held his head in his hands, trying to concentrate on what the characters with scripted lines and written endings were saying. Tim was another death that he couldn't stop, only this time he was a friend that he could never get back, permanently lost to all the ruthless bits of humanity.

Everyone else was having a relatively good time, despite the circumstances. He wanted his friends to be happy and he was never one to ruin a good thing. He tried to ignore this selfish feeling of loneliness that was rising up in him again, and he thought that maybe if he could immerse himself in the T.V. for a while, all thought about Nick's obvious discomfort and Tim's loss would cease.

So that's exactly what he did.

He hoped Ryan was faring better.

…

"Wow. This is a nice place," Ryan said, immediately taking in and appreciating the surroundings of Greg's apartment. He wasn't just being polite either; Greg's apartment wasn't half bad. There was a great view of the city and the colorful fish that were swimming around in a large tank made it much more… alive. Blue, yellow, pink: the night-lights of Las Vegas matched the fish perfectly and they swam, ignoring him, as if he belonged there and was nothing to be concerned about. "You've got a great view too."

"Well, you _are_ standing in the middle of my living room," Greg replied. He knew he shouldn't have said it, of course, but he couldn't resist; Ryan left it wide open. Ryan gave Greg a look from his place at the tank- not angry, more like embarrassed and almost, if he dare even think it, flattered.

"I meant the view of the city."

Greg grinned as he shed his coat and tossed his keys on the first available flat surface. Flat surfaces in his house tended to get covered in papers, magazines, and other nonessential items in a day's time: he would certainly never find those keys later.

"I know exactly what you meant," he lightly replied, making his way towards the kitchen, which was currently filled with frozen dinners and other bad-for-you foods. He had a distinct feeling that Ryan was more of a health food kind of guy, going more for the baked chips and water policy. He probably wouldn't be able to stand the pile of dishes in the sink either, or that weird purple blob in his fridge that was possibly once a red onion.

"So what will it be, Wolfe? Eggs? Toast? Both? Oh, pancakes," he said, answering his own question and immediately turned to a cupboard, pulling out some sugar and flour. "Rare is the chance that I actually have time to make these. I'm always running fashionably late for work."

"You make pancakes from scratch?" Ryan asked, wandering over from the fish to the counter where Greg was laying out some measuring spoons and a pan. Greg being domestic was something Ryan hadn't quite envisioned, and yet there he was, still crazy and refined all at once. Light streaming in through curtains made his blonde streaked hair brighter, his smile more intense, and every aspect about him up the scale in terms of "Greg-ness". He was undeniably beautiful in more than one sense, and Ryan couldn't stop the slow pang of regret as it hit his gut.

"I certainly do. It's a recipe passed down from generation to generation, until I was the only one left to pass it down to. Needless to say, the entire Olaf clan wasn't exactly filled with confidence when it came to my culinary skills."

"Olaf?" Ryan asked, a huge smile beginning to grow. It seemed like a family name that this man would certainly be part of. Anything weird or "out there" was of the norm for Greg and Ryan almost wished he could be spontaneous and limitless as well. But he wasn't any of those things; his books and CD's were in alphabetical order and the pictures were hanging straight on his wall, not tilted or skewed. There was nothing about him that Greg could possibly find appealing or even vaguely exciting.

"Grandpa Olaf was a man of brilliant genius, God bless his soul. That's obviously where I get my brains."

"As well as your modesty?"

Greg laughed, pausing a moment to shake his head before looking up and smiling at Ryan. Ryan practically flinched when he met the other's eyes. What was this? What was this nausea inducing, dizzying, nerve wracking emotion that hit Ryan every time Greg so much as looked in his general direction? He was no M.D., but it was possible that these were side effects of a serious case of insanity.

Ryan broke the eye contact as soon as he caught himself returning it. Quickly, his mind geared up and began racing with his mouth and he briefly wondered what stupid thing he might say if he didn't watch his words. "Need some help? I'm not particularly bad at cooking. At least, no one's said anything about it yet."

"No, no. Don't be ridiculous. I'm the host and as such, I refuse to let you labor while in my presence."

Ryan gave him a smile. "I really don't mind. I hate making you do all the work."

"I know you do, but I can make these blindfolded. Grampa Olaf made them all the time and I'd certainly hate to break the tradition."

"Then I'll just sit here and be useless."

"That's exactly what I mean for you to do. Relax and don't think about work."

"I don't always think about work."

"Oh, really?" Greg asked, turning to face him from the stovetop. "What are you thinking about right now?"

_These terrible feelings I'm having for you. _"Eating."

Their chitchat kept them laughing as Greg continued to measure, mix, pour, until within a few minutes, a batter had been whipped up and a skillet was hot on the stove, cooking the first batch of what Greg called "Grampa Olaf's Oddly Odoriferous Griddlecakes." ("Odoriferous is a _good_ thing," Greg explained once he saw Ryan's look of trepidation.)

Seeing that Greg was almost finished cooking, Ryan took the initiative by getting two glasses from a cabinet and some milk from the refrigerator.

"You might want to check the expiration date on the stuff," Greg warned, grinning at the look Ryan gave him when he spoke. "I haven't cleaned out the fridge in a while."

Ryan was silent, almost as if he was afraid to look, because along with Greg's charms came Greg's strange quirks and somehow, Ryan wouldn't be the least bit surprised that Greg had out-of-date products in his refrigerator. Finally, slowly, he turned to the carton of milk on the counter. His eyes scanned the label for the sell-by date.

"Greg, this expired two weeks ago," he announced, turning towards the other man with a raised brow. "That's really gross, not to mention slightly hazardous to your health."

"So what are you trying to say?"

"I don't suppose you have another carton?"

"Maybe in the back of the fridge. Way back, past the kingdom of soda cans. You might fall in if you aren't careful."

"Because that's where everyone keeps fresh food, right? Way in the back where you can't reach it?" Ryan was almost laughing at Greg's childish expression.

Greg served up and garnished the pancakes while Ryan took it upon himself to uncover the secret carton of fresh milk that he was sure was hiding in the dark, cobwebby corners of Greg's fridge. He also threw away a carton of bad eggs, a head of wilted lettuce, some runny cottage cheese, a couple of brown bananas, a small bag of dated ham, and a purple blob of what might have been red onion.

"Well, you're certainly a scientist," commented Ryan as he bagged the trash and left the kitchen, taking it and tossing it in the dumpster just beyond the back door.

"What's that supposed to mean?" inquired Greg from the doorway; hand on his hip and an amused smile on his face.

"All those experiments you've got going on in your fridge. I'm scared to go any further."

"You know Wolfe, you get funnier every day."

"I've been hanging around you too long."

They reentered the kitchen and Greg grabbed two plates off the counter and set them on the dining table before turning back to get some forks and knives. The pancakes were slathered in whip cream and strawberries, Ryan's guiltiest breakfast pleasure.

"I think Grandpa Olaf would be proud," Greg said from behind Ryan, slinging his arm around the other man. "Two guys who cooked a decent meal and didn't burn down the place in the process. Will miracles never cease?"

"Thank you," Ryan said, surprise laced in his words as he indicated the pancakes with a tilt of his head. "These are my favorite."

"I know," Greg replied, handing him a pair of eating utensils before taking a seat across from him. "I asked Calleigh. She seemed eager to tell me all kinds of stuff about you. Your favorite movie, your favorite color, your favorite pair of socks…"

"You asked her? Greg, I hope you didn't go to any extra trouble for me.''

Greg didn't meet Ryan's eyes; instead, he picked at the strawberries on the top of the plate. "I figured it was the least I could do to apologize for… what I did today."

Ryan felt his poise bottom out, making way for shock. Was Greg really going to bring this up? Ryan had weighed the pros and cons of bringing it up himself, but he figured that it only made sense to ignore it if the both of them had been relatively comfortable around each other even after The Kiss. "Greg, there's no reason-"

"I know you want to do well on this job and the last thing I wanted to do was mess it up for you, you know? I didn't mean to make it awkward. You're a great CSI and I'm lucky that you're still talking to me, much less trusting me not to jump you in my apartment after tempting you with breakfast."

"You don't have to apologize. It's no one's fault."

"It's the only decent thing I can do for you. I've already embarrassed you enough."

"It- it wasn't embarrassing."

"Ryan, you don't have to be polite about it. As you can probably already tell, I like both girls and guys. Moreover, I like _you_. But I stepped over the line and invaded your personal space and I'm very sorry. I plead my case with pancakes."

"There's nothing to-''

Greg looked up and Ryan felt that strange fluttering sensation in his stomach again.

"Would you please just say I'm forgiven?"

"Greg, you didn't do anything wrong."

"Besides completely cross the line?"

Ryan was surprised at the amount of guilt that was evident in Greg's voice. He always seemed so laidback, taking everything with stride and now he was begging to be forgiven, terrified that he might have made Ryan uncomfortable. It made his well-hidden self-doubt and anxiety clearly visible and Ryan realized that there were a million layers to this man. He resisted the sudden urge to uncover each and every one of them.

"Okay, then. If it makes you feel any better, consider yourself forgiven." Ryan felt ghastly saying it, but it seemed to be the only thing to alleviate Greg of his shame, although Ryan couldn't think of a single thing Greg needed to apologize for.

Greg's relief was plain as day and he let out a small sigh before smiling at Ryan from across the table.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Greg grinned again, his usual sparkle finally returning. "And shall I also say congratulations? We have created the most delectable pancake of all time. We'll sell the recipe to IHOP, make millions of dollars, and retire to a big-shot condo in Florida playing golf and bingo for the rest of our days."

"And we'll never have to wait forty five minutes for a table at any dining establishment again."

"Amen, my brother." Greg raised his orange juice glass and Ryan did the same; they clinked them together before taking a drink. Greg immediately dug in. Ryan, ever polite and (dare we say it?) reserved, began by actually cutting his food.

They were at ease now; any awkwardness that might have been there was gone. Still, Ryan couldn't help but yearn for a small piece that was missing somewhere, the piece that seemed to appear when they had kissed.

…

"So."

Ryan looked up from his backpack and idly wondered if Las Vegas was the city of déjà vu. However, he didn't hide his eyes from Eric; instead, he sucked in a silent breath before turning to face him, crossing his arms across his chest and giving Eric a look. He didn't want to be intimidating (he could never pull it off) but he at least wanted to hold his ground. Eric would question. And Ryan… well, he would at least try to meet his eyes instead of rummaging through his backpack this time.

"Is there something on your mind that you would like to ask me, Eric?"

Eric gave him an amused and somewhat impressed grin. "Whoa. I've never seen 'tough Ryan' before. Every day I learn something new about you. Must be this city."

"I know what you're going to ask," Ryan continued, trying not to return the smile. He knew Eric was only concerned and maybe, just _maybe_, all of Eric's "you like him, you just don't know it yet" theories were starting to come true.

"Who says I was going to ask anything? I'm merely a concerned when my friend stays out to who-knows-when in the morning."

"I didn't stay out that late."

"Of course you didn't. I was hallucinating when you came in a mere five hours ago." Eric gave him a triumphant look, and Ryan had to reluctantly admit that the Cuban had a definite upper hand in this battle.

"At least I didn't fall asleep on the couch. Watching _Miami Vice_ no less."

Eric wisely chose not to address that matter. Instead, he stayed on topic, something he could tell Ryan was trying not to broach. "You can't win this, my friend. Where'd you two lovebird head off to? IHOP?"

Ryan paused a moment. To admit they went to Greg's place might be a little suggestive and even if Eric knew that nothing would ever happen, he would still prefer to keep the unyielding repartee to a minimum.

"Yeah," he replied, turning back towards his current activity of pretending to be doing something more important that talking with Eric. "It was good."

"Good?"

"Fantastic? Spectacular? Mesmerizing? I'll call it a whole bunch of things if you'd like."

"I see my sarcasm is rubbing off on you."

"That's giving yourself a lot of credit, don't you think?"

"Ryan," Eric began, a huge smile on his face and warning tone to his voice. He was about to continue his comment when his cell rang. Ryan and Eric exchanged a curious look; Horatio was just in the next room and Gil never had any reason to call before.

Eric flipped it open. "Delko," he answered. It didn't matter who it was, they'd find out soon enough.

"_Hey Eric."_

"Nick?" Eric quickly turned from Ryan's line of sight, hoping his face wasn't giving his slight embarrassment and nervousness at talking with Nick again. But Ryan, ready for some serious payback, didn't allow Eric to hide. He followed wherever Eric turned to make sure he could get a clear view of the slight blush that Eric was now donning.

"_Yeah, it's me. You getting ready?"_

"Uh, sure. Me and Ryan were just about to head down to the lab."

"_Don't bother. A janitor found an entire stack of pictures in a garbage can at the airport. They were all of Ellie Jenkins."_

Eric looked at Ryan again, but this time it was solemn. Ryan paused as well, now frowning, his expression questioning what news Eric had just received.

"Meet you down there?" Eric asked Nick, shrugging on his thin coat and grabbing his key and backpack. Ryan followed suit, because the case was slowly beginning to reveal itself. Ellie Jenkins was important and they wouldn't rest until she could as well.

"_I've already got you a bag of Skittles."_

…

It didn't take long to find Nick, despite the large size of the airport: the swarming of police officers and K-9 dogs gave away his location in a mere few seconds. He and Ryan had taken two separate cabs and Ryan made him promise to call if anything important was discovered and Eric, ever the best friend, assured him that he would be the first to know.

"Hey, Eric!"

Eric turned from his spot and there Nick was, waving him over, a young Hispanic man standing next to him.

Eric approached carefully. The man seemed scared out of his mind and kept trying to protest his being there. He was wearing a custodian's uniform and was tugging at the hem of his sleeve, watching Eric with terrified brown eyes. For a moment, Eric was reminded of Ryan when the man made his nervous gestures.

"His name's Phillip Carez," Nick supplied once Eric had made his way past the sea of K-9 dogs, analysts, and officers. "He's the one who found the pictures in the garbage can."

"Does he speak English?"

"A little. Said he saw the pictures and called the police because he had seen Miss. Jenkins's photo in the newspaper."

A man, innocent or guilty, was in their presence and it was their job to decide which one he was. Eric quickly turned to the man and held out his hand.

"Hola. You speak English?"

The man nodded quickly. Eric felt like the bad guy as he often did, making people like Phillip Carez consider themselves threatened by the American justice system.

"Yes."

"Okay, good. Thanks for sticking around, Mr. Carez. Can you tell me how you came about those photographs?"

"I-I was just doing my work. I was taking care of the garbage and putting in new bags. I was mopping the floors. My boss says that-that I don't need papers to-''

"Don't worry Mr. Carez, we don't need to know anything about your papers. Just tell us about the pictures."

"I was bagging the trash but knocked over the can and it all spilled out. I was cleaning everything back up but there was a stack of pictures of this girl I see on the T.V. They said she was dead, so I call police."

"Did you see anything else?"

"No. No. I-I stay where I was until they came."

"Did you touch the photos?"

The man nervously nodded. "Yes. I moved them. They would be ruined by sodas in the trash."

"Okay, that's fine. Listen, thanks for calling us. We're going to take your picture and prints and you'll be free to leave." Eric knew Nick had asked all the relevant questions already and there was no reason to keep Mr. Carez any longer than necessary. He could remember his father's own nervousness when it came to American police and the last thing he intended to do was jade someone else who just wanted the best for themselves and their family.

Nick silently watched as Eric took his camera and inks, making sure Philip Carez was dealt with as compassionately as possible. What was it about Eric? He wasn't sure. All he could possibly be certain about was that he couldn't let anything he might feel for him interrupt their case. Just because Eric was good looking and smart and kind didn't mean Nick could just walk right up and ask him for drinks. It meant that Eric had distanced himself from Nick the night they visited The Alaska and the Texan couldn't guess as to why. Sara, who was positive she was hit by occasional bouts of ESP, claimed to know the answer: "He's totally into you!" But such a miracle couldn't be real, because miracles were acts of God and God didn't exist.

Phillip Carez practically flew when Eric released him. Nick took job of rounding up the officers and analysts and sending them back to the department; he and Eric could take care of the rest. The airport was too big to analyze and there were millions of prints in any one location of the building. All they needed were the contents of the trash and the can itself; anything else was secondary.

When the hustle and bustle left and only Eric and Nick remained, silence immediately took over. This was the part Nick didn't know how to handle. He could charm his way out of most anything, but Eric was one of the few who wouldn't buy it.

"Ready?" Nick asked, replacing his kit tools and bagging the prints they had collected off of the garbage can. Eric silently nodded, doing the same, and they walked out after giving the approval to reopen the area where they had previously been working.

Eric was dreading the truck ride back to the crime lab. He and Nick wouldn't speak; playing whatever game they'd been at for the past two days since Nick guessed about Eric. Would this be of the norm? Would they be only in the company of silence, a smothering quiet? He had a feeling they would unless one of them spoke.

So, grabbing hold of every fiber of courage he ever possessed, Eric did.

They had been driving for almost two minutes, two very long sixty-second periods of time. He remembered the advice Ryan had given him the night before: "Just talk. Do whatever it takes. He can't possibly be upset because you're gay." Calleigh, who had oh-so-innocently overheard, immediately agreed with Ryan and wasn't shy of putting in her two cents. Eric knew that if he couldn't do it for himself, he would have to bring up the conversation with Nick to at least appease Calleigh.

_Just talk, Delko. You're good at that. It can't be like this anymore._

"Nick?"

Nick seemed relieved by the noise and turned to Eric. The white moon hanging in the sky of Nevada lit the interior of the vehicle only slightly; Nick could vaguely make out the Cuban's features, but he was almost thankful for this circumstance. He wasn't sure he could talk to him face to face anyway. "Yeah?"

"Do you have a problem with me?" It sounded as if Eric was forcing the words out of his mouth and Nick couldn't blame him. He knew what Eric was talking about; he knew it couldn't be an easy question to ask.

"No. Why would you think that?"

"You haven't spoken to me in the last two days."

Nick didn't have anything witty or charming to say to that, which meant his first defense was all but annihilated. How was he supposed to respond? He sent a silent prayer to the non-existent God his family so believed in and struggled for a reply.

"I'm sorry. I didn't notice. I guess it's the case."

Eric let out a small, unbelieving laugh and a little bit of the tension faded away. "Nick, dude, you can be candid around me, okay? I'm sorry if any aspect of me makes you uncomfortable, I really am. I think you're a great CSI and I don't want anything between us to be awkward. I'm still the guy you knew before any of that stuff at The Alaska happened."

"Who you are doesn't bother me." Nick finally looked at Eric, wanting to make sure that his point was understood. He wanted to make sure Eric felt at ease around him, not on his tiptoes in constant worry of what he might think. "You have my word."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive."

He could practically _feel_ Eric smile, and Nick couldn't help but feel a bout of relief. Whatever misunderstanding between them was draining away, replaced by a companionable atmosphere.

"Good. That means we can go over this case while I search my backpack for food sustenance," Eric remarked, quickly unzipping some pockets of his bag and beginning to dig through them. He was sure Calleigh had given him some sort of trail mix bar or something else disgustingly healthy.

"Don't bother," replied Nick, reaching into the coat of his jacket and pulling out a small red bag. He tossed it over to Eric, who was momentarily speechless. In his hands was the unmistakably bright package of the best artificially colored and flavored edibles on Earth.

"These are Skittles. I thought you were only joking when you said you had some for me," Eric said, unable to stop his eager hands from ripping open the top of the package. Did he seem pathetically eager? Maybe so, but he was hungry and not even the Apocalypse could stop him from at least chomping down a few.

"Joking? I don't know a whole lot about you, but I _know_ there's no way you would have eaten before you got to the scene," replied Nick, shrugging casually. "So I just got to the vending machine before I left."

"Thank you."

"Your sharing is thanks enough."

"I don't remember hearing anything about sharing."

Nick laughed as he held out his right hand right side up, waving his finger expectantly. "Of course you didn't. Just don't share any of the grape ones."

"I _like _grape Skittles."

"Then this partnership will work out well."

And Eric, for once, could believe that it would.

…

It was the end of shift.

Eric took a quick look around the lab, already sure that Ryan had left. The younger man had probably headed towards the break room with Greg to say good-bye, as was their custom, but Eric had been immersed in organizing photos and prints that he had lost track of the time and wasn't in his usual spot.

Eric grabbed his backpack and left the building. He had already said his farewells to Calleigh and Horatio and was actually anticipating a good day's sleep. The case was progressing and his relationship with Nick wasn't suffering in the least. For once, he felt good about his job and everything in his life, despite Miss. Jenkins's case, felt solid.

He hailed a cab and went through the motions: directions, drive, pay. His was brain was on autopilot and all he wanted was a hot shower and a dreamless rest. But as he was climbing the steps of the hotel, his clothes wrinkled and looking rather scruffy, he heard his cell phone ring, its shrill tone making his head hurt. He quickly answered it, hoping he wouldn't have to return to the lab. Frankly, he was too tired to concentrate on anything anyway.

"Delko."

"_Hey Eric."_

Eric took in a deep breath; it was Nick, and Eric tried not to let his high school crush appear too evident in his voice. He was a grown man, after all, and all this thought of Nick was really becoming ridiculous.

"Hey Nick. What's up?"

"_Actually, nothing. Tomorrow's Saturday and Grissom wants us to take a day off. Let the day shift take a little of the load."_

"Oo, tempting. Guess that means I'll be sleeping in, huh?"

There was a pause at the end of the line, and Eric wondered what he could have possibly said to make Nick go quiet like that. Finally, after a slight silence, he could hear Nick speak. He almost sounded… nervous, which seemed a little out of character. Nick gave Eric the impression of being a take charge, accept-no-prisoners kind of guy.

"_Actually, I was thinking I could take you to lunch."_

"Me?"

"_You and Ryan and whoever,"_ Nick replied, his words rushing together and sounding slightly nervous.

"I think Ryan'll be hanging out with Greg. I might be the only one to take you up on your offer."

"_That's fine. You need some real food anyway."_

"Are you sure you're not going out of your way?"

"_I'm sure, unless I consider _Reno-911 _reruns to be the highlight of my one day off."_

"Which you don't?"

"_That's the point I'm trying to make."_

"Then I accept," Eric replied, trying not to grin stupidly in the middle of a hotel doorway.

"_Cool. I'll pick you up. You've gotta see Las Vegas, man."_

"I'm looking forward to it."

Eric made his way to the familiar elevator and rode up and unlocked his hotel door, trying to wipe the huge, idiotic grin off of his face. He idly wondered if Ryan was there but wouldn't be surprised if he weren't. It occurred to him that he himself was a little late to arrive back, something he'd been teasing Ryan about endlessly for the last four or so days. If he were to be caught, not only would it be embarrassing, but it would be blatantly hypocritical to Ryan as well, and that wasn't exactly a battle he was armed to win right now.

Slowly and quietly, he pushed the door open. The lights in the room were out. Ryan was probably gone and he could-

Suddenly and without warning, light filled the room and Ryan Wolfe stood there next to the lamp, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

Eric knew he would never, ever live this down.

Ryan grinned.

"_So_."

TBC.

…

A/T: I think I hear a choir of angels singing. "Hallelujah!" Please read and review- tell me what you think! Your comments are my fuel. (Did that sound desperate? Good. Mission: accomplished.) Next chapter: Greg and Ryan progress! Do you feel the electricity in the air? Even if this story is going slowly, it's just the way it's writing itself. How can I complain? At least it's getting written.

I hope any grammatical mistakes were kept to a minimum (and even if they weren't, please don't be brutal!). I'm brainstorming the case as we speak, and if you must know, Eric and Nick are so much harder to write than I ever thought. No kidding here, folks. If you don't believe me, I challenge you to try it!


	6. Wherever We Are

A/T: I have returned! Although, now I must ask: when I say "progress", what did everyone have in mind? There are some things I can write and some things I can't. I'll leave it up to you to figure it out. And although I have run smack into a writer's blocky wall, I will continue on for the good of the country, because I _know_ you're all counting on me!

In other news, I believe this is one of the most pointless and (dare I say it? Nooo! -sobs-) OOC chapters I've written so far. I just wasn't sure where to take it, so I wrote and deleted, wrote and deleted 'til this appeared out of the chaos. Tell me what you think… just so long as it's filled with praise and awe.

Disclaimer: _CSI_. Sanity. I own neither.

Out With It  
Act 6: Wherever We Are

**My heart laughs in my bosom; where I am, there I think of you.  
**-Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi to Anna Schulthess, _1769_

Ryan woke the next morning in the silence of he and Eric's hotel bedroom. There was very little noise; a T.V. could be heard through the walls, muffled laughter from the hallway, and a car honking its horn from the streets below. Sun was actually streaming through the blinds; a rare sight the past five days, considering the midnight shift so rarely saw the dawn. But despite this serenity, this peace that seemed to encompass the room, Ryan's body felt rigid and his head hurt from lack of proper rest. Ryan slowly sat up and moved to wipe the sleep from his eyes, despite the pain this caused his head. He paused a moment from his task.

His hand was wet from the tears in his eyes.

He knew he had been crying in his sleep, but he hadn't done that in a long time. Why now? What could he possibly have been upset over? He ignored the shame he felt, the weakness that hit his gut and made him sick. He felt hung over, although he hadn't had any alcohol in months and he was certain he hadn't drunk anything more than a soda last night. Despite the comforting fact that he was now awake, Ryan couldn't shake the dream that had been haunting him the past five nights; even before then, even before Las Vegas, the dream would sometimes plague him and he could hear voices in the midst of chaos. Glass, music, smoke, yellow police tape; all these things united together for the sole purpose of making his dreams miserable encounters.

Finally, after a minute or so of trying to shake away his uneasiness, Ryan could hear the telltale sound of a fork and pan clanking loudly together. This was certainly a perplexing reversal of reality. He, Ryan Wolfe, was still buried beneath a pile of blankets in his bed while Eric Delko, on the other hand, was showered and dressed, shuffling around in their small hotel kitchen in an attempt to make an edible breakfast that wasn't, for once, Skittles.

This was an admiral effort, of course, but it still wasn't right. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Ryan's back up alarm should be ringing shrilly in his ear while Eric slumbered on, unaware that the world even existed. Ryan should be getting up; taking the first shower and dressing in clothes he had pressed perfectly the night before. He should then be waking Eric up by whatever means possible, threatening bodily harm if necessary. The one thing Ryan _shouldn't_ have been doing was crying in his sleep, muttering indiscernible words of a man haunted by Nevada.

Ryan closed his eyes, trying to forget about the entire thing. He concentrated on the sounds and words of reality.

His eyes began roaming for the clock on the bedside table. He finally found it, although it meant turning his head and actually putting forth a physical effort to move. Obviously, he was spending far too much time with Eric and his dazed "just-five-more-minutes" habit.

"Am I late for work?" Ryan asked to no one in particular, his words still slurred with sleep, his body still sore from fitful rest. He tried to keep his eyes open but his exhaustion kept pulling them shut.

Eric, obviously having heard his muffled question from the kitchen, poked his head into the bedroom. "You should have been up an hour ago. By my calculations, if you hurry like hell, you'll only be an hour and a half behind."

Ryan's groggy brain quickly began reeling. Late? Was he really late? Or was Eric messing with him again? Did they have to day off? Did they need to get in early? Wouldn't Eric be late too? Why hadn't his alarm gone off? Why hadn't Eric woken him? Ryan took a deep breath, trying to force his mind to calm down and think logically. Being late meant making another bad impression, but for once, Ryan didn't care. Unable to stand the bed any longer, he carefully tossed the blankets off and padded into the kitchen/living room.

"Good morning," Eric cheerfully greeted before looking up and fully absorbing the state of Ryan's appearance. "Whoa. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you snuck out last night and hit every bar on the Strip."

Ryan didn't reply; merely sunk into the lumpy couch, praying the throbbing in his head would stop sometime that century.

"Hey, are you okay? You look like hell." Macho men with something to prove usually hid concern for fellow males; Eric didn't bother to hide is worry. He wasn't macho and had nothing to prove and even if he did, his friends came first. He walked over, kneeling so that he was eye level with the younger man.

Ryan shook his head, trying to lighten the apprehension that was practically radiating off the Cuban. "Thanks. Looking like hell is the trend these days."

"Are you catching something?"

"I just didn't sleep well."

"Are you hungry? I've can make eggs and bacon or something."

"Eggs and bacon?" Ryan asked, the mere thought making him want to puke on the spot. He tried to cover up his nausea, knowing it would only increase Eric's alarm. "Is that what I smell burning?"

Eric cast a quick look over his shoulder towards the stovetop before rolling his eyes and turning back to face his friend. "Funny, Wolfe. I'm trying to be a friend here, but I don't feed those who insult my cooking."

Ryan held up his hands in surrender, a small smile on his face. "All right, no more insulting your too-crispy bacon. If you insist on pampering me, how about some toast and an orange?"

"And maybe a Tylenol?"

"Since you absolutely insist."

"Trust me, I do. And FYI, those circles under your eyes look worse than mine do."

"Ouch. The ultimate insult."

"You're really asking for it, Ryan."

Ryan laughed, ignoring the pain in his neck and shoulders. "Why am I not terrified?"

Eric smiled, walking towards the fridge and rummaging for some fresh oranges. He dropped some bread into the toaster before tracking down the Tylenol, his own omelet still cooking slowly and, thankfully, not burning. After a few minutes of scavenging the medicine cabinet, Ryan's toast popped up and the meds were successfully located. Ryan watched as Eric went from one place to the next, buttering the toast and getting him a glass of Coke, a helpful beverage when one was assaulted by a headache of such a strong caliber.

"Thank you," Ryan murmured, truly grateful when Eric brought him his grub. Without Eric, Ryan probably would have just lay miserably in bed and starved instead. "You take good care of me."

"If I didn't, who would? You'd probably live on the streets without my wise and timely guidance."

"Wise and timely advice? FYI, I hope you know I can't take a lot of crap so early in the afternoon," Ryan said, sporting a large grin. Eric laughed before rising to go check on his breakfast which, in all technicality, was actually lunch, but Ryan had stopped bothering with the labeling of mealtimes. As long as they ate, what did it matter? Their hours were ruthless and so was breakfast. Lunch. Whatever.

"So what are you doing today?" Ryan asked, quickly beginning to peal his orange. There were few things he loved more than fruit, but he would hate to see some of the stuff in Greg's fridge or, even more frightening, his freezer.

"I'm going sightseeing with Nick. He even promised me some real food. Haven't had that it a while, have we?"

Ryan heard Eric speak, but wasn't until a few moments later that his answer really began to decipher itself in his brain. When it finally sank in and his brain registered the huge mistake Eric was about to make, Ryan could only manage a meek, "Sightseeing with Nick?" in response.

"Yeah. Besides, I'll get lost in all that mess out there. I need someone to drag me around or I'll be stuck here all day."

"You're spending an entire day with Nick, out of work?"

Eric looked up from his carefully cooked breakfast, now out of the pan and garnished to his liking, and gave Ryan a quizzical glance. "Yes," he replied, slowly, as if speaking to a child who couldn't quite grasp his words. "Is that a problem? You can come with us if you'd like."

Ryan shook his head, hoping he could explain himself. "It's not that. It's just…"

"Just what?"

Ryan's mouth went dry for a few seconds. What was wrong with Eric's plan? Theoretically, it was an ideal arrangement. But that look in Eric's eyes… it was the same Ryan had when he and Greg went to breakfast together. Eric didn't want Ryan to join them, because he wanted time with Nick, just as Ryan wanted time with Greg. Which meant Eric was inevitably tackling the same problems and questions that Ryan was.

Eric liked Nick. _Like _liked Nick. And that wasn't good for either party involved with their fiasco.

"Nothing," Ryan replied, slightly stuttering on his words and thus giving himself away completely. "I'm not saying anything. Sounds like a lot of fun."

There was a long, uncomfortable pause. Eric didn't look at the younger CSI and Ryan couldn't blame him. Frankly, Ryan was being a little hypocritical about Eric's relationship. Wasn't Ryan in a similar situation? Eric wasn't stupid. He knew what Ryan was getting at, and like Ryan himself, he wasn't prepared to face it.

"That's the idea," Eric nonchalantly responded, as if trying to end the entire conversation. He looked uncomfortable and a little ashamed; Ryan felt sick knowing that his own careless questions were the reason for his friend's sudden change in personality.

And most of the time, Ryan would go along with it and allow the conversation to drop into oblivion. He didn't like to attract attention and he didn't like getting on the wrong side of people. He certainly didn't want to upset Eric. But there were some things that he couldn't stop himself from saying; Eric was one of his closest friends and Ryan didn't want him to have to know what it was like to fall in love with someone three thousand miles away.

"I just don't want you to be hurt," Ryan said softly, hoping Eric wasn't upset with him and his "I'm-allowed-to-get-into-one-sided-relationships-with-people-who-live-far-away-but-you-aren't" complex.

"_Me_ getting hurt? Have you seen yourself this past week?" Eric asked, giving Ryan a muted look, his tone reflecting the same emotion.

"What? What's wrong with me?" Ryan asked; his voice was saturated with denial but it only masked his true anxiety. The truth was that he _had_ seen himself the past week and he was sufficiently terrified of what might result.

"What's wrong with you?" Eric asked, completely exasperated and abandoning his previous task of eating. "You and Greg! You think I'm going to be hurt? Fine, maybe I will. But can you honestly say that when you have to say goodbye to Greg, you're not going to leave half your heart buried somewhere in this desert?"

Ryan wanted to say something in return. He wanted to act just as cool as Eric was being, but the older man's words held no untruth. He was right. It hit Ryan harder than he ever knew it could; he would get on that plane and fly back to Florida, but God, it would tear him up into an infinite number of pieces, scattered across three thousand miles of a nation.

Eric looked away. Ryan couldn't say he felt much braver.

"Sorry," Eric finally muttered, leaning tiredly against the table. "I'm sorry. That was totally uncalled for."

"No. You're right," Ryan whispered, rubbing his eyes, hurt and fear and panic settling firmly into his gut. He too abandoned his meal. "It's going to be hard to leave. I should have never allowed myself to ever… It's my fault. I knew better."

"Ryan, it's no one's fault. You like Greg. It's natural."

"I got on that plane and told myself that it was only about Ellie Jenkins. I came here so afraid that I would mess up the case. I think I've messed up my head more than anything else."

"Guess this is our reality check, right?" said Eric, smiling rather unhappily and looking out the window towards the rush that was Las Vegas, towards true sun and artificial light. "A reminder that we can't get involved?"

"I just don't want you to feel like I will when we have to leave," said Ryan, finally looking up to face his partner. "I didn't want to make you angry. A day with Nick sounds great, but…"

"I know. I'm courting disaster."

"We both are."

They both fell silent. The sun continued to shine through the glass, lighting up the city. People walked by, cars zoomed past; the world actually seemed brighter. And yet there they were, trapped by both affection and logic; they both knew logic would inevitably win with them.

"So I guess I should cancel," Eric quietly suggested after a stretched hush. "You and me could go out and get hopelessly lost, have too many drinks at a local bar, grab a cab and have a bad hangover for work tomorrow. I hear that's what a lot of other miserable screw-ups in love do."

Ryan smiled and, unable to help himself, laughed. "Although that sounds like an excellent plan, Nick is going to be here in about five minutes. It would really be a shame to let him down now that you're both ready to go."

"Let him down?" asked Eric, incredulously. "Trust me, he can find plenty of other people to hang out with. I won't be letting him down by any means."

Ryan popped a slice of orange into his mouth, looking thoughtfully towards his friend. "You think so?"

"I know so," Eric replied.

"He wouldn't have asked if he didn't want to spend some extra time outside the lab with you. Besides, what was that story Calleigh was telling me about?" Ryan asked, a sneaky grin beginning to grow. "As I recall, you guys were on a case. You were at some sort of bar dusting for prints and all these women thought you were a bartender. They were offering you money and calling you a whole slew of things that I don't want to think about."

Eric tried in vain to fight off a grin and a blush at the memory. "That's Cal's version. She's the hopeless romantic."

"Be that as it may, Nick definitely sees something in you. My case in point is that he _would_ be let down if you decided to bail. So you're going to go out and have a great time. You're going to see Las Vegas and then you're going to come back and tell me all about it in excruciating detail."

"I thought going out was the recipe for disaster?" Eric asked, curious but unable to hide his smile. Ryan could tell that no matter how reckless and stupid and illogical their plan was, Eric wanted to go with Nick nonetheless. Far be it of Ryan to stop any happiness his best friend may be granted.

"Won't know 'til you go. Besides, all I plan on doing is lying around, doing nothing. You don't want to hang out with me. Your plan is much better."

"They usually are, compared to yours."

"That really hurts."

"I can tell you're all broken up about it."

Ryan laughed again, shaking his head as he did so. He picked at his toast and then set it back down, not really hungry. Was it his fault that Eric was now doubting himself? Should he have even of brought it up? Was it really better to have secretly loved and lost than never to have loved at all? Ryan doubted it was. It was easier to not have met the person than to be torn apart from them, to always have those memories. You can't miss what you never had and you can't have what you never knew.

Ryan pulled at another orange slice, not meeting Eric's eyes. When he spoke, his voice was the only sound in the room.

"I'm just saying be careful."

"I will be."

"Okay."

"Thank you."

There was nothing to be thanked for, but Ryan knew what Eric was saying. _Thanks for looking out for me. Thanks for being a real friend. _It would have felt good to have that appreciation if it wasn't darkened by inevitable anguish.

So when the knock came, when the chance that Eric shouldn't really take was waiting on the other side of the hotel door, Ryan gave Eric an expectant look and Eric tried to return this look with one of his own. This was a failed attempt; he ended up sporting a nervous smile instead. With a knowing grin, Ryan padded towards the door, peering through the peephole just to make sure before unlocking the deadbolt and chain, opening it to reveal one charming, breathtaking Nick Stokes.

Ryan gave the Texan a small, friendly wave. "Hi Nick."

"Hey Ryan," Nick replied, giving him a polite smile before a more concerned frown formed. "No offense, but you look worse for wear. You feeling okay?"

"Just need some more sleep."

"Huh. Greg can really wear a guy out, can't he?" Nick asked, quirking a dark eyebrow. Ryan couldn't fight the small blush that rose to his cheeks. What was that supposed to mean? And where did Nick ever get that idea?

"He certainly does. Drags me to every restaurant in the city."

Ryan could feel a presence behind him and instinctively knew it was Eric. He felt relieved; Nick was one of the nicest guys he's ever met, but talking about Greg with anyone other than his own internal monologue was something he couldn't manage that easily.

"Hey," Eric greeted Nick, smiling. Ryan observed Nick as their exchange began: Nick's hands were wiped anxiously against his thighs, his eyes were definitely focused, and his smile was nervous but real. Maybe Eric didn't catch it, but Ryan certainly did. Was that cologne Nick was wearing? His clothes were casual but not t-shirt and jeans; Ryan wouldn't have allowed Eric to leave with him if it had been. It was more like an "I tried everything in my closet on before I finally found this" fashion. Nick probably looked good in anything he wore; he was trying to impress but wanting to appear as if he wasn't. It was actually kind of sweet. It was unfortunate that Eric was oblivious.

"All right. I'll see you guys later," Ryan said as Eric joined Nick in the hallway, a nervous energy radiating off of his skin.

"Okay. And get some sleep. Otherwise you'll be all grouchy tomorrow, and no one wants that," Eric advised, grinning. Ryan shook his head, hoping to one day have a decent comeback.

Ryan said his goodbyes before shutting the door, locking it and turning to face his empty hotel room. He closed his eyes and leaned on the door, slowly sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, the headache and sickness fully surfacing once more in the vacancy and silence of the room.

This was going to be much more painful than he could have ever anticipated.

He idly wondered what Greg was doing before quickly abandoning that thought. He would no longer entertain thoughts of Greg. He was going to get some sleep, hopefully dreamless, and enjoy the quiet for once.

He went to bed feeling ill.

…

Knock.

Knock.

Pound.

It was an oddly similar situation compared to that morning, merely at a different time of day.

Ryan was roused by the sound of someone knocking persistently on his hotel door. The energy it was going to take to actually get up and answer it seemed too great and he was tempted to just let whomever it was find some other door to knock on instead. But it could be Calleigh or Horatio and the last thing Ryan wanted to do was ignore them; after all, he hadn't seen very much of them the past few days and it could be important. So with a small groan he threw off his blankets again and padded towards the door. Weren't they exhausted like he was? What were they thinking? It was an opportune time to catch some shut-eye; only caffeine induced druggies or crazed weirdos were up in times like these.

Ryan finally stumbled towards the door in one dignified piece (Eric usually stubbed his toe or ran into a wall when he was groggy enough), fighting back a yawn as he did so. After wiping the sleep from his thankfully dry eyes, he peered through the peephole, his CSI curiosity beginning to overtake his drowsiness.

Impossible hair, brown eyes, and nervously rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. That's how Greg looked on the other side of Ryan's door.

Ryan froze on the spot.

His immediate and default response was to go hide under his blankets again and ignore that ever-present feeling of attraction and guilt. But that wasn't really an option, so throwing the door wide open and letting Greg in was Ryan's second choice. The fact remained that his dark hair was messy and his sleepwear was rumpled and Ryan wasn't exactly jumping at the chance to let Greg see him at his most unprepared and, frankly, humanistic state.

So Ryan did what he knew he wanted to do anyway, despite the many reasons why he should just let Greg leave under the assumption that the room was empty. He took a deep breath before unlocking the door and opening it slightly, revealing only a portion of his bedraggled condition.

Greg looked up, surprised that the door was finally opening.

"Hey," said Greg, flashing Ryan a bright grin.

"Hi," replied Ryan, returning the smile and sinking into the comfortable feeling that always came with Greg.

"I didn't wake you up, did I?" he queried, both a worried and sheepish look beginning to form. Even if he had, it was to late for that now.

"No, of course not. Would you like to come in?" Ryan asked, opening the door so that Greg could enter, feeling self-consciously naked in his white t-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms. But this was Greg, so there was little reason to ever be embarrassed. Greg could always top someone else's horror story with one of his own, able to constantly tip the scale in terms of both the humiliation and absurdity levels.

"Sorry about the room," Ryan began, giving Greg an embarrassed look as the other man took a casual look around. "If I could, I'd make Eric clean up his messes. He's a hopeless case."

"Like me?"

"Actually, no. You're much worse, if such a thing is possible."

"I see kindness isn't one of your strong points," Greg said, laughing a little before making himself at home in one of the table's hard wooden chairs.

"It's a work in progress. Can I get you something?"

"No, I'm cool. Sorry to drop in unannounced."

"Please don't worry about that. I need some human contact anyway."

"Speaking of which," Greg said, flashing another smile, "I heard Nick was hanging out with Eric today."

"He is. He said something about real food and that's all Eric needed to hear."

"That's a man for you. Food and sex is always on their mind."

Ryan laughed again. His headache was pretty much gone and the sickness in his stomach had disappeared completely. The Floridian wouldn't be surprised to discover that Greg had secret healing powers just waiting to be discovered. Just being with him made him feel lighter, better than he had all day.

"So," Greg began, slowly, "You stuck here all afternoon?"

"Pretty much. Maybe I can catch some of those enticing _Reno 911_ reruns."

Greg shook his head quickly. "That's where I draw the line. I'll cut the cable cord first before I even let you near that remote control."

"Do you have a better plan?"

"That's –uh- actually what I came down here to ask. You want to go somewhere? Food? Club? I hear it's your first day off in a while."

Ryan didn't reply first. Wasn't that what Eric was going? Having fun? Enjoying himself? Not hiding from what could happen? He was actually living a life; Ryan had stopped living a long time ago.

_Be brave for once, Wolfe. _

"Sounds like fun. Any particular place you like to go?"

Basically, that was a "yes" from Ryan Wolfe. Greg fought down the urge to jump up and down in a celebratory dance like the idiot he could sometimes be.

"Oh, I don't know. Vegas is a big city." Ryan allowed Greg to turn it over in his mind, the pros and cons of clubs and food and all the things the bright city had to offer.

And suddenly, Greg smiled. Big, bright, beautiful; Ryan felt the same regret hit him again.

"You like swing dancing?"

…

The club was actually a respectable one, which knocked Ryan for a loop. Whenever Ryan went to clubs (very, very rarely would he agree to go with Eric) there were always half-naked girls, lots of booze, and music so loud that he couldn't even understand the words, much less those who tried to speak to him. Needless to say, Ryan wasn't a big fan of any sort of dance club and when Greg suggested it, he was hesitant to say the least. When Greg suggested The Swingers, he was ready to lock himself in the bathroom in protest. And when Greg gave him that excited, lopsided smile, Ryan surrendered himself to the inevitable.

Ryan was more or less a fashion outcast, so Greg helped him pick something out of his suitcase; dark slacks with a white shirt and gray jacket that Greg claimed didn't make him look too much of a complete loser.

"I hope you know I've never swing danced before," Ryan warned as he made sure the door was firmly locked behind them and silently hoping that Greg might change his mind. They could go to a safe movie instead, which offered a monumentally smaller chance of humiliation in front of gobs of people.

But Greg wasn't easily deferred. He smiled again, obviously very enthused about their plan and hit the down button of the elevator impatiently.

"I'll show you how. Besides, Swingers is so much better than some of the other clubs in Vegas anyway."

"I don't really go to clubs. I don't like loud music and I hate drinking."

"I know," Greg answered, giving Ryan a cheeky grin. "About the loud music, at least."

"But you're going to drag me to this one anyway?"

The elevator let out a "ding" before the doors slid open. Greg considered the question as they got inside and the doors slid back shut.

"If I'm going to irreparably scar you for life, I figured some traumatic dancing would be the first logical step," Greg replied, gazing at their reflection in the elevator's metal doors. They were standing together, shoulders barely touching. They fit together perfectly; one taller, one shorter, one crazy and one not. One was tactful, the other not so much. Greg couldn't remember feeling this way about anyone before. It made him feel feverish and sick all at once, as if he were catching the romantic version of the flu.

The elevator ride was a short one, but long enough for Greg to tell Ryan wasn't entirely comfortable with the entire dancing idea. The insecurities that Ryan faced with his job was one thing; the insecurities about boogieing down in front of other human beings was on an entirely different plane altogether.

"If you hate it," Greg started, "We won't stay. Anything you want to do is fine."

Ryan gave the other man a sideways glance as they left the hotel, venturing out into the bright city of Las Vegas. Someone, somewhere, might be winning the jackpot or losing everything they had. That was both the magnificence and cruelty of the city; it was all a game of chance and it was never predictable.

"You like dancing, don't you?" the Floridian asked, already pretty sure he knew the answer.

"It's almost better than being a rock star."

"When's the last time you went?"

Greg chewed his lip in thought as he stuck his hand out at the corner, hailing a taxi. "I think Sara and I went a couple of months ago. She forgot my birthday and I told her that if she went with me, I'd forgive her. Y'know, until next year. She forgets every time."

Ryan tried to ignore a small bout of jealousy that hit him from out of nowhere. Greg went dancing with Sara? Okay, he could deal with that. It wasn't as if it mattered. It was ridiculous to even _consider_ being envious of her.

"A couple of months? Then I guess I'm going whether I like it or not. But if I make a fool out of myself, you're going down with me."

"It's a deal."

"Club" was a pretty loose term and not exactly the best word used to describe something. When Ryan envisioned Swingers, he could see a broken down structure with numerous building violations, a couple of druggies in the corner, and a heavy cloud of smoke coming from those who lived a cigarette inclined life. But when the cab pulled up, it wasn't exactly a building. Quite the opposite; it was a large wooden veranda complete with potted trees strung with white lights. There were very few druggies to speak of, the women were actually wearing clothes, and there was a _live band. _

Ryan hadn't seen a live band in what seemed like an eternity. Not rock and roll or death metal; in other words, not Greg's kind of music, but a real jazz band with the works. Sure, Ryan still had 999 more reasons why he shouldn't be here, but the music certainly wasn't one of them.

"It's a real band," said Ryan, a hint of admiration in his voice. Greg grinned and led them up towards some umbrella-covered tables, complete with some half-decent 1940-ish ornamentation.

"It surely is. Rumor 'round the lab is you're a jazz guy at heart. I figured swing is the next best thing."

"That's amazing."

"Yes, well, everyone says that about me." Greg gave Ryan another quirky grin as the darker haired man rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Can I get you a drink? Or do you thoroughly hate alcohol with every fiber of your being?"

"I pretty much stick with water," Ryan replied, ready to buy it himself, not wanting Greg to feel as if he had to do things for him. Ryan was capable, just a little terrified. "But I can get it myself. You don't have to-''

"One water it is," said Greg, obviously not allowing Ryan to get a word in edgewise. "I'll be right back."

Ryan knew protest would get him no where; instead, he let Greg make his way towards the bar and watched him buy a bottle of water for a self certified health freak and something red and probably slightly alcoholic for himself. Across the veranda, the band was tuning, getting ready to jam. Ryan watched in fascination, bits and pieces of his old saxophone days flitting through his mind. They were testing tempos, leafing through some sheet music and fake books, talking amongst themselves as they adjusted their fedoras. Wetting reeds, fiddling with mouthpieces- it was all part of the thrill of performing in front of others. And for once, since the plane touched down in Nevada, Ryan wasn't thinking about Ellie Jenkins. He felt guilty.

"You look pretty fascinated," said a voice; Ryan didn't even need to hear it to somehow know it was Greg. "You play in a band once?"

Ryan took the bottled water Greg offered before giving him an embarrassed smile. "I used to in high school, then I joined one for some extra money in college."

Greg looked genuinely interested as he leaned forward from across the table, couples streaming in as the band continued to prepare themselves. "What did you play?"

"Alto sax," Ryan answered, laughing a little. "Marching band and then jazz. It was fun, but I didn't have time to keep it up when I started the patrol, so I think it's sitting and rusting in my attic somewhere."

"Do you play anymore?"

"Not really. I never have the time."

"We'll have to remedy that," said Greg, looking thoughtfully at Ryan. The darker haired man fought down a blush and took a sip of water, diverting his gaze and instead observing the crowd around them. The veranda was open, so they could see both the sky and the casinos Las Vegas was infamous for. It really wasn't as bad as Ryan first imagined it would be.

"So. Are you ready to learn from the master?" Greg asked, rising from his seat, every part of him outlined by the light of the casinos, his own excited glow making him the most beautiful man there.

Ryan bit his tongue. No, he wasn't ready. But this was Greg, after all, and "no" wasn't in his vocabulary.

"I don't guess I have a choice, do I?" Ryan asked, taking a deep breath before capping his water and rising from his seat as well.

"Not this time," replied Greg, smiling. "Now c'mere."

Ryan took a quick look around; other couples were practicing, at least, and there were those who looked as if they weren't sure what they were doing there either. This was a little comforting to know.

Greg walked him to the corner of the floor, feeling intoxicated at his closeness to Ryan. When he first thought of asking Ryan here, he wasn't really sure what the other man would say. Victory was nearly his when Ryan agreed, but he was beginning to retrace his steps backwards through his mind. This hadn't been a good idea from the beginning, because he hadn't planned on this insanely fast heartbeat he had going on. He was obvious and that was the one thing he didn't want to be. He wanted to be suave and smooth, someone Ryan could really fall for.

"Alright then. Welcome to Greg Sanders School of Dance. My name's Greg and I'll be your instructor."

Ryan let out a short, genuine laugh, bowing his head in an attempt to hide his embarrassed blush. Greg grinned. At least he was relaxing at the idea of dancing.

"Before you freak out, remember that swing dancing is like riding a bike. The first rule of Greg's School of Dance is that there's no such thing as messing up. Even if you fall flat on your face, that's not actually a mistake. It's just a move that no one's thought of yet."

"That's not exactly filling me with a lot of confidence, Greg."

"Second rule: you don't need confidence, you need me, your instructor." Greg, with exaggerated flourish, stuck his hands out.

"To begin, swing dancing was meant for a man and woman. But those who invented this intricate dance hadn't planned on the gay liberation front, so now there are a lot of variations. The woman puts her hand on the man's left shoulder and clasps her right hand with his like this."

Greg found Ryan's right hand and held it, demonstrating the simple way it was done. Their hands fit perfectly together, like two pieces of a puzzle just waiting to be matched.

"Now your other hand goes on my hip."

Ryan hesitantly placed his hand on Greg's hip.

"Perfect," congratulated Greg. Ryan let out another nervous laugh, his eyes not quite meeting Greg's. It felt a little awkward to touch Greg at first, but he knew he would eventually get used to it.

"Thanks."

"See? This isn't so difficult. Now, I'll be the woman and I'll teach you the steps."

"You're not going to throw me over your shoulder or anything, are you?"

"Nah. That's a highly advanced move, so we'll naturally learn that tomorrow."

Greg grinned teasingly and Ryan found himself relaxing in intervals. He was still alive and breathing. This was a higher success than he previously anticipated.

"Now, you take the first step to the left, like this. Then you go back on your right." Ryan mirrored his foot's movements with that of Greg's own. Left step, right step, back to the beginning.

"Next, we step back from each other. You do it on your left foot, like this and then sort of rock back. Then we come back to each other."

Amazingly enough, Greg managed to get Ryan to abandon his figurative other left foot and reclaim his right; before Ryan knew it, they were doing the basic steps with no problem.

"All right, we're smokin'. Next thing you have to do is twirl the lovely lady –that would be me- with your left hand like this."

Time passed. Ryan eventually began forgetting those around him; he and Greg… they were together and happy and dancing and who cared what anyone else thought? More couples filtered in; laughter, conversation, the tinkling of ice in plastic cups of soda.

By then, the lead member of the band had flipped on the microphone on and gave the large crowd a charming smile, his fedora tilted fashionably and an electric guitar around his neck.

"Whoa, great crowd out there. Welcome to Swingers!" The crowd let out an appreciative roar of excitement. "Who's read to dance?" Another loud who-hah, bigger this time, filled to the brim with energy.

This was a part of Las Vegas that Ryan hadn't expected. No casinos, no life and death roll of the dice. It was people getting together, a huge group that had never seen each other, wanting to dance and let go of everything for just a few hours. It was almost a relief that such feelings existed- among death and hate and greed, it was nice to see a public would still gather together, regardless of the past or future. Music was in the moment and a moment meant everything.

Greg dragged them from the corner and more towards the center.

"You realize that I'll mess up a couple hundred times before I get this, right?" Ryan asked, unconsciously tightening his grip on Greg's hand.

"Have you forgotten rule number two of the Greg Sander's School of Dance?"

"Right. There are no screw ups."

The trombonist and saxophonist put their instruments to their mouth; a bassist plucked a few strings, the drummer clicked his sticks together, indicating a tempo. Ryan remembered all those things he used to know before the music started. Immediately, those around them began twirling and laughing, getting into rhythm of the song. At first, Ryan didn't really move- it was one thing to embarrass himself but quite another to embarrass Greg.

Greg gave him a smile despite those shuffling around them.

"Rule number two, remember?"

So Ryan counted in his head like he used to in band, waiting for the right time to being. _2, 3, 4_ and he went step, step, rock step, step, step…

They were dancing. And only then did Ryan realize it might seem a little weird to a bystander that he was dancing with another male, but Greg wasn't a label. He wasn't gay or bi or masculine- he was a genius who could dance and make great pancakes and loved music like he loved life. Who cared who danced with or dated whom? For once, Ryan couldn't bring himself to worry about it. Greg was amazing and Ryan counted himself lucky to be with him like this, having fun and laughing; messing up completely and totally not caring. Who else could have that with someone?

Time passed and they continued on, Greg teaching him more steps and variations as the evening progressed. But both eventually succumbed to thirst; Ryan was surprised by the workout someone got dancing like that. They found their table again, laughing and leaning into each other as they made their way past the floor and to their previous seats.

"So," said Greg, grinning widely, "I see you haven't died out there yet. I might even have to beat off a few vicious looking women who were eyeing you."

"I'm sure they were. Probably giggling at the dozens of times I stepped on your feet."

"You weren't that bad. It's only my big toe that's bruised."

Ryan laughed, taking a large gulp of water before asking, "What time is it?"

Greg took a quick look at his watch. "Nine o'clock."

"I'm exhausted," the darker man admitted, flopping into his seat and leaning back, trying to catch a glimpse of the stars. "I'm sure you're used to all that madness."

"Actually, I'm kind of tired too. Guess I'm getting old."

"You'll never be old."

"Well, I _will_ be the spunkiest guy in the nursing home, but I'll still have to wobble around on a cane. Wonder if the cute nurses'll still think I'm hot?"

"Correction," Ryan said, shaking his head at Greg's comment, "You'll grow old but you'll never grow up."

There was a stretch of silence before Greg smiled softly and Ryan ignored the familiar pang of regret that always assaulted him in times like these. "Want to get out of here?" Greg asked, rising from his seat. He didn't give Ryan much of a chance to argue about it, considering he knew Ryan was tired anyway. They muscles hurt from the constant movement; they certainly weren't old, but they were slightly haunted and tired.

The air was cool enough to walk in, which was so unlike Las Vegas. But neither man questioned this luck; instead, they walked past large groups and bright lights, side by side, arms barely touching.

"So. Was all the effort it took for me to drag you down here worth it?" Greg asked, elbowing Ryan lightly.

Ryan smiled. "It wasn't that bad," he admitted. "I had fun. But Calleigh'll never believe I went dancing."

"Why not, huh? I'm your witness. You danced in front of real people and didn't melt into a big puddle screaming 'What a world, what a world.' This is huge success on your part."

"I can't believe I didn't want to come here."

Greg gave him a curious look. "What do you mean?"

"Cal called the night before we left about the case. It was a big spring and I couldn't stop thinking that I was never going to get through this. But I also knew I had to prove to everyone that I could do this job, so I was the first one at the airport."

"I think that's a mission accomplished when it comes to proving yourself."

"We haven't solved the case yet."

"But we will."

Ryan was silent. Would they really? Greg was the optimist; Ryan was the realist. But he didn't want to think about death and forensics right now- he wanted to blend and be like everyone else, not be drug down by ghosts clawing for their adequate revenge.

"Probably. But I'm glad that I've had the chance to come here despite the case."

"And why's that? Don't tell me it's the hospitable atmosphere."

Ryan smiled. "I don't know. It's… it's hard to explain."

"Well, for one thing, you never would have met me. Your life would have remained a gray, meaningless expanse of time without my presence."

"Maybe in not so many words."

"But it's still true?"

"Possibly."

"You're such a tease."

Ryan bit his lip, staring ahead. Cars, streets, voices, stars; all part of the night they were having. But he realized a day ago as he cried in his sleep, a strange meaningless occurrence, that rejecting Greg's advances had been a huge mistake. Sure, if Greg made another move, he'd be open for it. But he had laid down the law and Greg had respect for him, so no more unwanted advances would be made on Greg's part.

…

After a while, they eventually caught a cab. Both knew it was far too long a walk back to Ryan's hotel or Greg's apartment; in the end, they choose to spend a few more hours at Greg's, simply because he had real food that they wouldn't have to pay for.

"You hungry?" Greg asked as he unlocked his front door. Ryan noticed the slight tremble of Greg's hand when he heard the keys jangle together, making for a small noise. It certainly wasn't nervousness; it wasn't until a few moments later that Ryan realized it had to be the after effects of the infamous lab explosion he had heard so much about from Las Vegas techs. It had been big and loud, destroying everything within its fiery reach, shattering windows and walls and tables. And then it almost killed Greg. Ryan hated to think about it.

"A little. Do you have any pretzels or something?"

"Ah, the health freak speaks. I suppose deep fried and highly salted potato chips are too good for the likes of you?" Greg asked as he began to rummage through various packages on the top of his fridge.

"Is it so wrong to be a fit human being?"

"Well, I have pretzels, but they've long since turned stale. Ah ha! Trail mix sound good? It's a fresh bag."

"Trail mix actually has a lot of sugar, especially if dried fruit are added."

Greg turned and gave Ryan a pointed look. "Tonight, Ryan Wolfe, you're going to be rebellious. You went out. You mingled. You danced. And you're going to consume sugary foods."

"Now that I think about, trail mix sounds really good."

"You bet it does. And I can't wait until Calleigh hears about _this_. You, eating sugar? Has Hell frozen over?"

"You get funnier every time I see you."

"Which has been with alarming frequency, hasn't it?"

"I guess that's your way of saying that you're tired of me already."

Greg shook his head, grinning. "Not possible, my friend."

They found their comfortable space on the couch, Ryan on one end with a bag of trail mix and Greg on the other with some Mint Milano cookies. Greg threw his shoes haphazardly across the floor and Ryan put his side by side, neatly under the table where no one would trip on them later. They didn't turn on the T.V. or radio; simply sat, munching on foods that weren't all that healthy for the either of them. But they were being wild and crazy that night and it was their celebratory meal, declaring that they could party hearty with the best of 'em.

"So," said Greg around of mouthful of cookie, "Tell me about Miami."

Ryan paused a moment. Its humid air was his oxygen and Florida was all he'd ever really know.

"It's always hot. The air is constantly humid but the oceans are blue. And you think you're among all these beautiful rich people until you start digging through the poor communities and uncovering the rest of the population. There are so many others that everyone ignores. It's hard to watch sometimes."

"Surfers get good waves down there?"

"I hear they do, but I wouldn't know first hand."

"Imagining you out there _is_ sort of funny. Ryan Wolfe, surfer. I just can't see it."

"Thanks for that vote of confidence."

Greg gave a small laugh before sobering up, placing his cookies on the coffee table and obviously having lost his appetite. "You'll have to go back there soon."

"I will," the Floridian agreed, the reminder causing the knot in his stomach to grow. It was regret and the pain of separation; not having Greg around wasn't really fathomable. Working alone in the Miami lab? It was a hard image to conjure up, made worse by the fact that it was bitterly realistic.

A silence hung between them. And before Ryan could really begin to argue with himself, begin to weigh and pros and cons of every move he made, he set down his bag of trail mix and moved from his seat at the end of the couch toward the other side. He crawled up until he was facing Greg, who tilted his head.

"You really are being rebellious, aren't you?" Greg softly asked.

Ryan swallowed down his irrational fear and doubt. He _was_ being rebelling against the common sense he was known to drown himself in, the logic and realism that he lived his entire life by. He wanted to take an opportunity for once, and even if he failed miserably, there are chances worth failing for. This was one of them.

"Sometimes," Ryan quietly began, "I let these amazing possibilities pass me by because I'm too scared to take the risk. And then sometimes I _do _take the risk, but I let this crazy fear of success keep me from going any further. I'm a whole box of contradictions and my OCD does a good job hiding the chaos in my head. I'm a mess and I hate that."

"You're not a mess."

"I'm a coward."

"You're none of those things."

"Aren't I? You kissed me yesterday. I _wanted_ you to kiss me. And what did I do? I let my logic speak for me. I hate taking big chances and I hate not knowing what's going to come next, so I ran away. I just don't want…"

"Don't want what, Ryan?" Greg whispered. Ryan looked up and met his eyes- he knew he couldn't lie to Greg. Not right now. Not ever again. He saw in Greg what he saw in so few others; honesty, fear, affection. Even if Greg were scared, he would still jump despite any danger of failure. He, like Las Vegas, would take the gamble and run with it.

"I don't want to pass this up," Ryan gently finished. "I don't know what to call this thing we have between us. It's a huge chance for us to take, but I would rather risk it than be safe. Not that you have to reciprocate any of my feelings," he continued, the beginnings of a ramble starting to form. His awkwardness was returning full force; the stuttering, the blushing, the words that ran together. "I'm a really serious guy and I've never liked one night stands. To me, you're much more than that and…"

He forced himself to stop speaking.

He had no words. There was no reason to further this shame.

He closed his eyes and shook his head. If only he could start again, re-edit his dialogue; really think things through before opening his big mouth. But he couldn't; the words had already been said. He couldn't take them back and try again. God had by now witnessed his foolishness, storing his declarations in a box somewhere, ready to pull them out when the occasion arose.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, moving away from Greg and losing the warmth that had fueled his entire brave decision. "I'm so sorry."

"What are you apologizing for?" Greg asked, now shifting from his frozen position and sliding next to Ryan who was sitting at the end of the couch, looking regretful and confused.

"For throwing this all on you. I should have known better. I just didn't want you to think that I didn't feel the same way."

"So you… like me?" Greg asked, uncertainty laced in his words. Hope, doubt, desire; all those things crammed together in four words, in one question. All he wanted was an answer.

Ryan gave a short laugh. "Much more than I should."

"So if I kiss you, you're not going to file a sexual harassment charge against me?"

Ryan shook his head, turning to meet Greg's eyes and, for once, not looking away.

"No. No charges."

"And you're really sure?"

"I'm positive."

Greg gave him one more look, searching for any ounce of hesitation that Ryan could still of had. He saw none.

He cautiously leaned in closer, barely brushing his lips against those of the other man's. It was sweet, timid, as if he were almost afraid of what Ryan might say, despite the reassurances from earlier.

Ryan pressed back.

It was a huge relief on Greg's part; as each second passed, they began to peel away the uncertainties and fears of rejection. For once, time and place didn't exist. It didn't matter that Ryan lived in Florida and Greg resided in Nevada; they didn't care that time was against them. It wasn't about logic or deduction or science or even crime- it was about emotion, something true and raw, waiting to be released. This was how they felt and it would seem like that would be the only important thing.

They paused a moment. Their eyes fluttered open and Ryan gave him a shy smile, a blush tinting his pale skin.

"Am I that bad of a kisser?" A question laden with fear of taunting or comment; how humiliating was it to be told that you were a bad kisser? Especially by someone who you held in such high regard? "I haven't done it in a long time." An unneeded excuse on his part, because Ryan was perfect to Greg and there was certainly nothing wrong with the way he kissed.

Greg shook his head. He was aware of the stupid, dazed smile he was sporting before he leaned in and kissed him again. Ryan met his lips; pushed him back so that Greg was lying on the couch and he was on top, exploring each other with their mouths and hands, their skin suddenly ultra sensitive when it came to the brush of each other's fingertips.

Ryan moved from Greg's lips to his neck and collarbone, sensitive skin that drove Greg crazy when treated like that. His breathing became faster, his heart threatening to burst out of his chest at any moment. He heard someone's moan echo off the walls before he realized it was his own.

"Ry- Ryan," he gasped out, shifting to give the other man better access. He couldn't manage to say anything else before his lips found themselves another task; his trembling hands itched to take off all the layers that Ryan was wearing. Ryan's knee had found its way between Greg's thighs, pressing against parts of him that shouldn't be teased unless Ryan was ready to take this to the bedroom.

Greg knew he had to speak before he did something he might regret. Not only did he care for Ryan, he respected him as well and he didn't want to push the other man to do something he didn't want to do. Maybe if he were less of a gentleman then he'd try to con Ryan into Doing It; he'd be no better than the sickos he in prison, of course, but conning was _such_ a tempting offer. It just wasn't the classiest. And even though Greg never claimed to be classy, he certainly wasn't scummy. He'd never treat Ryan that way, no matter what the rest of his body wanted.

"Ryan, wait," he panted, his body rebelling against his mind. His body was rip roarin' to go, screaming for them to move past the making out session and to dirtier deeds, but his mind knew better. This was more than just a careless fling and it would be wrong to treat it as anything else.

"What is it?" Ryan asked, a worried look on his face. "Did I do someth-''

"It's not that at all," Greg said between shallow breaths. "God, it's… _I_ might do something out of bounds. Making out- I just, I don't want to pressure you. But I might go crazy if we… if this is all we –uh- do. God, this is embarrassing," he said, covering is face with his hands. "I'm sorry. I think I'm losing my mind."

Ryan smiled. Genuine, bright, and possibly the most beautiful Greg had ever seen.

"Don't be embarrassed. I think it's good. You're a gentleman."

"I hope you don't mind."

"It just so happens that I don't."

"Oh. Good. That's good."

"So how far do you want to go with this?"

"I should think that's pretty obvious. But I'm not the one deciding. If it had been up to me, I would have thrown you down and had my wicked way with you days ago."

Ryan took one of Greg's trembling hands; he knew it was part of the package when it came to the explosion, but he also knew it was nerves. Ryan couldn't blame the other man for his confession. In truth, Ryan had barely managed to keep himself in check before he did something regrettable.

Their fingers intertwined; Ryan kissed the shaking hand lightly.

"Where's your bedroom?" he asked, his voice a hush whisper.

"Down the hall, to the left," Greg replied. When had his voice gone in octave up? Why did he feel like he was in high school again? How was Ryan able to make him feel this way?

Their eyes met and Ryan smiled before rising from his position above Greg, disentangling himself from their knot, ascending from the couch. Greg's eyes followed him uncertainly. Would he get his coat and say goodnight? Or would he, miracle upon miracle, head to the hall and make a left?

Ryan gave him a teasing, terrified grin. "Are you just going to sit there?"

"You're sure?" Greg asked, mentally kicking himself even as he asked the question. _Why tempt fate, dumb ass? He's saying yes to you! Don't push for anything less!_ But Greg still wanted to be certain, because sleeping with someone, like most everything else, was irreversible. You give yourself to someone completely. That meant something.

Ryan quirked his eyebrow as he turned towards the hall and made a blessed left; his voice echoing from Greg's bedroom, their hearts thundering in their chests.

"Are you just trying to let me down nicely? Because I can tell when I'm not wanted."

Before Greg knew it, he was shedding his coat and following Ryan's amused voice. Bouts of laughter could be heard before they both fell into the sheets.

TBC.

…

A/T: Sometimes it's nice and refrained writing. But sometimes, folks, it's "take-no-prisoners" writing. For those not accustomed to my madness, that's what I write because I can't really think of a more intelligent plot line. Dancing? Sure, why not. It might be clichéd, but I gave it the most original twist I could and left it at that. I tried to keep it flowing, poetic, worthy of hundreds of inspired reviews. I might have failed. Alas, I'm past the point where that's important. I'm on chapter 6, and that's the most amazing thing thus far.

Chapter 7: Are you curious how Nick and Eric's day went? (Or will I have to bribe you with cookies?) Or (if anyone cares) how the case is going? (I'm sure some of you are going, "Who _is_ this Ellie Jenkins character anyway?") Honestly, CSI teams don't cross jurisdictions because someone littered, people! -laughs-And for those who've swing danced, I was trying to imagine the man's moves from a woman's standpoint. It might be backwards, but that was just another artistic license I was willing to take.


	7. Circumstance’s Location

A/T: I'm not dead, I swear. And even if I was, I'd come back from the grave to finish this. Thanks for all your wonderful comments and feedback! I haven't had any death threats and someone actually _recommended my story._ For that, I give cookies to everyone.

P.S. I began writing this story when Ryan and Eric seemed to be getting along. Remember that episode with the shower and dead prostitute and evil judge? They were calling each other by their first names and joking around. It's different now, but I still think they'll be friends in the end and that's how I intend to write them.

P.P.S. I didn't realize Brass's daughter was named Ellie until I saw _Hollywood Brass_ and by then it was way too late. I've always just liked that name; she and the victim of this piece have no relation.

Disclaimer: This is the hardest part of every fic: a witty disclaimer. Oh, well. 2 outta 3 ain't bad. :) I own nothing. I do this because I love writing and (Shh! Don't tell anyone!) I have no social life. Here's to the rest of us - we're computer/crime drama geeks and we're damn proud of it!

Out With It  
Act 7: Circumstance's Location

**I was full of the tenderness with which you have inspired me, when I was in the company of my friends. It shone in my eyes; it spoke in my tongue; it governed every motion; it showed itself in everything. I must have appeared very strange to them; extraordinarily inspired; divine!  
**-Dennis Diderot to Sophie Voland, _1759_

It had been a good day.

Clarify that: it had been a great day. It was just as Ryan promised it would be, and Ryan was usually right about the parts of life Eric hadn't been in touch with for a very long time. A day with Nick wasn't awkward and it wasn't weird. He didn't take him to loud and tacky tourist spots; there were millions of little corners in Las Vegas that everyone seemed to miss. Nick had been there a long time; he knew the roads that were often overgrown with history and he knew the people that made Eric feel right at home.

They had been occupying a booth in the back of a restaurant that served real food; they were engaged in conversations about Speed, about work, about all the things they hadn't spoken of in a while. It was there that Nick suddenly became quiet and still like stone, like glass, like steel.

It was then that Eric knew there was a problem.

People screamed when they saw the gun.

(My name is Ellie Jenkins, and this wasn't how life used to be.)

…

Two minutes later found them hurdling through a crowded plaza brimming with tourists and residents alike.

"HEY!"

Neither CSI turned to respond to the bellowed call. The gunmen were definitely gaining speed and trying to flag them down; they couldn't afford to lose time. The men had guns while Nick and Eric did not. Their voices shot through the air and found the ears of their intended victims.

"Hey, fellas, we just wanna talk!"

As a general rule, those were never good words.

The two men doing the chasing resembled Cruella DeVille's henchmen. One was tall and lean, the other was short and a little round about the middle. They were in civilian clothes and the taller one was wearing a cap with the Las Vegas 51's baseball logo on the front. The shorter one was wearing glasses.

"We officially have a problem," Eric muttered as they sped through the crowds, attracting the attention of just about everyone. "Not that I've ever been chased down before, but we need a car or a weapon."

"And we're around all these people. A big chance for collateral damage," Nick responded as they made a mad dash around the corner towards a crowded street filled with both cars and pedestrians. They didn't pay attention to the lights; red, green, it was all elementary. The only thing they needed was to get away.

"HEY! Slow down!" Another warning from their two pursuers pushed both Nick and Eric towards a faster run. When they heard the screams and then a gunshot, they knew the situation was quickly getting out of their hands.

"Taxi?" Nick asked as they made a break across the street even through the moving traffic. The two men followed them anyway, a chorus of angry beeping cars protesting their pursuit.

"Not enough time," Eric replied between breaths.

Beside Nick was a tourist cart overflowing with cheap products and knockoff sunglasses. He quickly grabbed it and swung it around in front of them, blocking their followers before giving it a rough shove towards them.

"Neither of us have a gun," admitted Eric as he quickly began looking for another means of weaponry. "Guess we'll have to improvise."

"I call dibs on the metal pole," Nick said, quickly grabbing a gate pole from the fire escape above them.

"I call this guy's cell phone," Eric replied. The man is question wasn't politely asked or even informed of the situation; his cell was ripped from his hand. He opened his mouth in protest, giving the Cuban an offended look, but Eric cut him off by saying, "If you know what's good for you, you'll start running."

The man, not stupid by any means, took the advice and headed for the hills while Eric made good use of his electronic find. He frantically cleared the last call and dialed Jim Brass' number directly.

"Yeah, Brass, this is Delko. We're on Flamingo Road and Eastern Avenue. We need backup ASAP." Nick bought Eric twelve precious seconds worth of time; he heaved the metal pole straight towards one of their pursuers and knocked him right between the eyes.

There was another angry shot; Nick and Eric turned quickly and began toward the opposite direction as fast as their legs could move.

"Hear that? Hurry the hell up!" Eric yelled into the phone. "We're heading East. Two suspects carrying weapons in pursuit of two unarmed CSIs. Now would be fucking great!"

"Any more ideas?" Nick asked breathlessly as they instantaneously turned a left and began running again, Eric shoving the phone in his pocket.

"No, that was about it. You?"

"Staying alive sounds pretty good right about now."

They made a break for it across four lanes of traffic, this time blessedly still. They needed a way to defend themselves and they needed it in a hurry. It would take –what?- three minutes if dispatch was nearby.

"YO! Don't make us shoot again!"

It was the voices of the two armed men; they sounded out of breath, but so were Nick and Eric.

They continued down their path, making sure not to make any wrong turns into dead end alleys. The minutes they spent running felt like days before the blessed sirens wailed.

There was cursing. There was the frantic turn of two cowardly gunmen. There was the pursuit that followed.

There was a shot.

They were captured.

Eric fell to the ground, exhausted. Nick fell as well.

And Nick kissed him.

He was crying.

…

The room was still and silent.

Ryan and Greg's calm and methodical breathing was the only movement throughout the entire house, save the ticking of clock hands and the lazy swimming of Greg's fish. Their breaths were in and out, their arms intertwined around each other, sheets rumpled and clothes scattered about the place, draped over chairs and pooled on carpet. The blackout curtains were certainly doing their job properly, because Greg's room was dark, making it as if the sun didn't even exist.

It was serene.

It was perfect.

And then the phone rang.

Because Ryan Wolfe was a sworn creature of habit, his first impulse was to reach out and answer it, thus ceasing the shrill sound. They had been in a deep sleep; coma like, almost, dreaming and being part of worlds not fully realized in the land of the living. Their subconscious's told them stories of yellow crime scene tape, music, glass, smoke; even though it was a frighteningly familiar dream, one that haunted them both while they slept, the fact remained that they were still peaceful with each other for a single day. They were both comfortable and at ease for the first time in a long while, and it was understandable that Ryan would want to eradicate the source of sound as soon as possible.

So he answered it.

He blindly stretched out his right hand towards the bed stand, rummaging around for the wicked device and using only his ability to touch and feel to do so. In spite of everything, opening his eyes to look for it didn't seem probable at the moment; it was too dark and he was just too tired to even try. A few seconds and another ring later, he finally felt the cord and then the phone itself; he grabbed it, silencing the piercing ring. This victory, however, was not nearly rewarding enough. A much more satisfying scenario would have the caller at the hands of a shooting squad.

But there were no shooting squads and absolutely no way of avoiding duty and the bitter hours of reality. With a tired groan and small sigh, he put the phone to his ear, eyes still shut and wishing the world could just be normal for a few more hours with no crime scenes and no preempted deaths.

"Wolfe," he said, his voice gravely with sleep and displacement. The only thing he truly recognized and welcomed was the warm pair of arms around his waist that tightened in protest at the interruption.

There was silence at the end of the line. For one brief and joyous moment, the thought of escaping real life graced Ryan's mind. What if it was just some annoying telemarketer or electronic message? He and Greg could ignore it and act as if they hadn't lost a minute of slumber. They could sleep until they were actually rested, make breakfast, shower, and get the day off they so rightfully deserved.

"Hello?" he asked again, ready and willing to hang up.

There was another brief pause before the silence disappeared into nothing, replaced by Nick's unmistakable voice.

"Ryan?" His voice held a hint of uncertainty before he spoke again. "Is that you?"

Oops.

Ryan's heart painfully hit the bottom of his stomach the moment he detected that Texan accent. What was Nick calling for? Had there been a break in the case? Was someone hurt? The numerous and grim possibilities began running frantic laps around in his head. More than anything, however, was the panic of being caught in a most compromising situation.

"Nick?" the Floridian asked, his voice sounding similar to that of a mouse's squeak before catching at the end. Even if he hadn't been captured by Greg's embrace, he wouldn't have been able to move due to the sheer horror of the situation anyway. CSIs weren't stupid by any means. How could they be? Ryan could only guess that Nick had already figured it out; after all, what would Ryan be doing at Greg's apartment during sleeping hours other than sleeping after some admittedly exhausting activities?

"Yeah, it's me. I… is Greg there?" the other man asked, fumbling slightly over his words. It was evident, even in Ryan's sleep deprived state of mind, that Ryan himself wasn't the only one uncomfortable by their current dilemma.

"I- yeah, I mean… he's here, he's just… hold on, would you?"

Ryan quickly sat up, covering the receiver with his right hand. His heart was thudding painfully against his chest and he was sure he looked as if he'd just run a marathon.

"Greg!" he whispered, a tone of trepidation to his voice. "Greg, wake up!" He shook the other man's shoulder for emphasis and, to his relief, met a bewildered pair of brown eyes a few seconds later.

"Ryan? What is it?" He sounded concerned and, understandably, displaced. He sat up, glancing around for the time before meeting Ryan's flustered gaze.

"It's Nick. He's on the phone."

Greg suddenly stilled, reality quickly setting in. Even without a cup of his infamous Blue Hawaiian coffee, Greg was certainly grasping the problem if the little frown on his lips was any indication.

Ryan handed him the phone uncertainly.

Greg took it, giving him a small, reassuring smile. He held the phone with one hand and clutched Ryan's left hand with his other, giving it an encouraging squeeze. Ryan felt himself slightly relax. But then, Greg had the particular and uncanny ability to do that.

"Hey Nick," Greg greeted, his voice even, as if to say _Ryan just answered my phone at two in the afternoon. But don't make anything of it, because you and I both know that there's nothing to be awkward about_. "What's going on?"

Nick, along with Ryan and Greg, was a scientist. He went through situations, thought them over, and came up with a logical conclusion. This was certainly a situation and he would do the same as he always did. His conclusion was that Ryan was indeed answering Greg's phone at telltale hours in the day, and unless Ryan had just fallen asleep there, it was pretty obvious what had happened. But Nick was nothing if not a good friend. He wasn't going to make a big deal out of it because there was no reason to; if Greg and Ryan could be happy, even for just a few weeks, then he certainly wasn't going to stop them.

"I'm really sorry to call, but Eric and I were just pursued by two pretty enthusiastic gunmen."

Greg's eyes flew open and he clutched both the phone and Ryan's hand harder. "Oh my God! Are you guys okay?" Ryan quickly shot Greg a concerned look, obviously worried by the question.

"Yeah man, we're fine. They're in custody, but now we've got a ton of trace to deal with. We have their car and clothes and we're hoping it might lead us to Ellie Jenkins's killer. I'd give it to Hodges, but he's got cases stacked to the roof." There was an apologetic pause before the inevitable struck with brute and unforgiving strength: "I really don't want to ask this, but would you and Ryan mind-''

"We'll be there in half in hour," Greg interrupted. "I just can't believe that happened. What were you guys doing anyway?"

"Don't worry about us. You can get the details later," Nick replied, alleviating Greg's concern while, coincidentally, avoiding the question. "Just make sure you let Ryan borrow some of your clothes or something. For the love of God, though, not one of those bad shirts."

"Nick!" Greg protested, turning a slight shade of red despite the fact he was still in his own home.

"Okay, okay," Nick relented, amused at Greg's rare show of embarrassment. "You've guys got half an hour before Grissom starts sniffing you out like a bloodhound."

"Got it. See you then."

They quickly said their good-byes before Greg hung up the phone. Ryan turned an anxious eye towards him.

"What is it? What happened?"

Greg took a breath, still trying to process the information himself. "Apparently," he began, hoping to word it properly and keep Ryan's alarm down to a minimum, "Nick and Eric were chased down by two men with… weapons. They think it was about the Miami murder."

"Guns?" Ryan asked, incredulous. Although Greg hadn't specified the particular weapon, Ryan jumped to the most logical and correct conclusion. "They were chased down by guys with guns?"

Greg and Ryan had spent a fair amount of time with each other and Greg had a good idea as to how Ryan would react to the news: he'd worry excessively. And a mere few seconds later, Greg was proven correct. Ryan's beautiful brown eyes grew the size of saucers before he combusted, metaphorically speaking.

"They were _what?_" His voice was filled with a frantic fear. "What happened? Where were they?"

Most of the time, both Greg and Ryan were calm and rational. Whilst Greg was more eccentric and prone to sparse but emotional outbursts of the "I have to prove myself" variety, Ryan's panic attacks usually revolved around his friends and affected him on a much deeper level. He was shaking his head as if he couldn't believe it, ready to form words but unable to speak. Within his eyes Greg could see the wheels of his mind turning over these facts, observing them from every angle, trying to connect them together.

"Ryan-'' Greg began, attempting to calm him down.

Ryan didn't seem to hear the other man. "Are you sure they're okay? If anything happened to Eric-''

"Ryan, sweetie," Greg interrupted, softly. "They're both perfectly fine. There's nothing to worry about."

Ryan heard the consoling words before they actually meant anything to him. He took a deep breath, trying to imagine what it was Nick had said over the phone. He seemed to sound okay, not frightened or nervous. Greg didn't seem to be worried about it either, although he often took things with stride. Coupled together, the facts seemed to present themselves: Nick and Eric, though maybe just a bit shaken, weren't threatened or harmed in the least. They were still good to go.

It was another crisis diverted.

"And you're sure they're okay?" he asked uncertainly. "Because if they're not-''

Greg nodded in response. "I'm positive. I would never lie about it."

Ryan took another deep breath before sighing, completely aware that Greg was right. "I know you wouldn't," he replied. "I'm sorry I freaked out. It's just… Horatio can't lose another guy. Calleigh wouldn't be able to handle it either."

"I know. You don't have to apologize, Ryan."

"Did he call from the lab?"

"Yeah." Greg smiled before rolling his eyes. "Probably mooching off my coffee, too. I'll let them slide just this once." It was evident he was trying to be upbeat, but the absence of sleep was already beginning to show. He closed his eyes tiredly, too exhausted to worry about his stolen coffee before resting his head in the crook of Ryan's shoulder. "It's early," he muttered. "You're probably tired."

"A little," Ryan admitted, smiling despite himself before tracing lazy patterns up Greg's arm. "We both are."

"Only because we fell asleep way past my usual bedtime," Greg replied, his voice muffled. Even though Ryan couldn't see Greg's face, he could tell that he was grinning like the cat that caught the canary. "If you recall."

Ryan laughed before shaking his head and running his fingers through his shaggy dark hair, trying to tame it the best he could. "I certainly recall, Mr. Sanders." Greg looked up from his resting place just in time to receive a shy smile. "But I don't have any clean clothes. Or a toothbrush."

Greg gave him a once over, as if he hadn't discovered every part of him hours before. "You look about my size and I've got some normal clothes to spare. Plus," he said, grinning, "I've got some extra toothbrushes."

Ryan raised an eyebrow. "And why would you have those?"

"Well, I _could_ say that I've been planning your seduction for days and bought extra in case I was actually successful," he teased, wiggling his eyebrows. "But the truth is, I accidentally dropped mine in the toilet a few months ago and bought extra just in case I got clumsy again."

Ryan laughed and shook his head. "You never stop surprising me."

"Well, if we had the time, I'd make you force the truth out of me by _any_ means you could dream up," Greg admitted, giving Ryan a suggestive grin. Ryan blushed in return, smiling nonetheless.

"Okay, Mr. Romance. Where's your shower?"

"End of the hall. It's the room with the sink and toilet."

Ryan ignored the sarcasm, preferring to fish for his boxers instead. He finally found them kicked under Greg's bed, having hastily been discarded hours ago. He grabbed them and made a move to put them on before he felt Greg's eyes watching him. He turned rather uncertainly.

"Aren't you going to turn around?" he asked, a note of genuine puzzlement in his voice.

"Turn around?" Greg echoed, genuine puzzlement in his as well. "Why? I think we've crossed all lines of decency, don't you?"

"Oh. Well, I just thought…" Ryan began, searching for the appropriate words and pulling a blank.

"If it makes you uncomfortable, then I'll be a gentlemen. It goes against everything I am, of course," Greg said, quickly turning to face the other direction and allowing Ryan to slip into his boxers. "And I hope you know that you're denying me a perfectly good chance to check you out."

Ryan laughed and his voice echoed from the doorway, where he was making his way towards the bathroom. "Sure. Me, all pale and skinny. You're not missing much."

Greg heard the words and frowned at their meaning as he rose and pulled on his own boxers and T-shirt before searching for something appropriate enough for the other man to wear. Ryan didn't seem much for loud colors; instead, he seemed like a classic guy. Greg began sliding hangers down the rack, glancing at the article of clothing every hanger offered before moving on. Amnesty International T-shirt? Too worn. _Theory of a Dead Man _t-shirt? It was obviously Greg's and everyone in the lab knew it. Red plaid button-down? Good Lord, hadn't he given that away yet?

After much searching, a white button down was discovered in the darkest recesses of his closet, in the I-Might-Need-It-Someday section. He could never really know when something important would pop up and he'd need something halfway decent to wear, so he stocked up on acceptable ties and jackets; after all, fancy dinners had dress codes and he was pretty sure those codes didn't allow for any sort of color besides black, white, and neutral. Everyone had seen him wear this sort of shirt, but it was so generic that it would go unnoticed.

He quickly uncovered his ironing board (which was being used as a make-shift table of sorts) before beginning the strangely domestic task of ironing both his and Ryan's attire.

He heard the running water of a shower. Although they had debated sharing one, both knew it wouldn't exactly save any time. For one, they wouldn't be able to keep their hands off each other and, secondly, the logistics of sharing a shower were complicated. There was water (higher chances of slipping) and not much room to spare. Both being scientists, they understood the complications of a shared shower and, to Greg's relief, Ryan didn't think it was that romantic anyway.

A few minutes passed as Greg continued his housewife duty. The water in the bathroom shut off and Greg could hear the rummaging of a man in search of spare toothbrushes. Greg smiled in spite of himself. It was so odd; it was as if they had been doing this forever. There didn't seem to be any awkwardness between them except for Ryan's self-conscious image.

What had Ryan meant a few minutes before? Did he honestly believe he wasn't good looking? Did he genuinely believe that Greg didn't find him to be the most beautiful man in Las Vegas? Even then, Greg wasn't referring to looks. Ryan was so kind and truly concerned for people. It was refreshing and Greg loved every quirk and flaw of Ryan's character.

As he unplugged the iron and returned the board to its rightful place (covering it once more with papers and junk) he heard the bathroom door open and Ryan stepped out, bundled up in one of Greg's bathrobes. Ryan walked over, his hair damp and flat for the most part. He glanced at the two selections of clothing lying out before pointing to the white button down and said, "This had better be mine or I'm not leaving this apartment."

"Aw. Don't you like my style?" Greg asked, mock hurt in his voice.

"From what I've been told, _you're_ the only one who likes your style. However," he conceded, "If it's part of you, I'll always like it. Just not much."

"So that means you'll wear it, right?"

Ryan laughed and shook his head before he took the shirt and headed for Greg's bedroom, giving Greg a quick kiss before he did so. "I'm going to get dressed. I think I saved enough hot water for you to get by on."

Greg was going to let him go. Honestly, he was. They were running short on time, but his mind kept pestering him to speak. Very rarely did he listen to himself; most instances, he just managed to dig his grave deeper. However, his mouth and brain often worked independently from each other and that afternoon was no exception.

"Hey, Ryan," Greg said before the other man could leave. "You don't… you don't think you're attractive?" he softly asked.

Ryan leaned against the doorway of the hall and smiled uncertainly. "I don't know. Never really thought about it, I guess. I'm not what you'd call masculine or anything."

Greg shook his head before letting out an over-exaggerated sigh. "I see the cruel conformities of American society have brainwashed you into believing you need to fit the ideal masculine role."

Ryan gave him a curious look. "Why? Wouldn't you want to fit in?"

"Not if I had to sacrifice who I was," Greg replied. "Besides, it took a long while for people to look past my hair and bad clothing. They saw I was a good CSI and left it at that."

"I see a good CSI too."

"Ryan…"

"I'm not some middle-school girl with body issues. I'm just… I guess I've always thought Eric was more ideal."

"Ideal for Nick, maybe. We all have our ideal person in mind and they're all different. You, for example, are my ideal partner. It's just personal preference. Not to mention you look totally hot all wet like that."

Ryan laughed and shook his head, genuinely amused and surprised. "Greg Sanders, you were getting deep and ideological. Then you go and say something like that."

Greg grinned. "I like keeping my audience on their toes."

"Would you just go clean yourself up already?" Ryan asked, not nearly as upset as he should have been.

Greg did exactly that. He quickly finished putting his ensemble together before grabbing a glass to brush his teeth with. He did what he always did: run brush under running water, apply toothpaste, and then run it under the water again. But something was different somehow; it was better and he felt alive. He gazed into the mirror, toothbrush hanging halfway out of his mouth. _You have no idea what you're getting yourself into, do you? _Of course he didn't, but he couldn't seem to make himself regret their night together. He rinsed and then opened his bottle of Listerine. Hygiene was everything.

He was about to get into the shower before he was ambushed by the irresistible urge to do one other thing before he officially began his day.

He walked out of the bathroom and towards his bedroom; he didn't bother knocking. Instead, he merely opened the door and was greeted by Ryan dressing in clothes that weren't even his and looked perfect on him all the same.

Ryan quirked an eyebrow. "Aren't you supposed to be in the shower?" he asked as he began to button up his shirt and tucking it beneath the waist of the slacks.

Greg didn't reply. Instead, he walked over, pressed the Floridian against the wall, and kissed him. It wasn't hot and insistent; it wasn't "I'm going to tear your lungs out" or "I want you here and now." It was sweet and when Greg broke it off, he met Ryan's startled eyes before he whispered, "I think you're beautiful. You should never consider yourself anything less."

Ryan smiled almost shyly, a furious blush beginning to tint his cheeks. "We're going to be late," he whispered in return. It wasn't much of an argument on his part; his hands had slipped around Greg's waist, pulling him closer. They would have given a week's pay to have a few extra hours with each other, but that didn't seem like a request Grissom was likely to grant.

Greg sighed and gave him one last peck on the lips. "Yes, we are. Catherine will kill us both."

He turned quickly and ran towards the bathroom, hurriedly stripping down and turning on the water. Ryan could still hear him talking to himself, muttering things about stupid henchmen and how they ruin a perfectly good afternoon.

Ryan laughed before he finished dressing and began the ominous task of going through Greg's refrigerator in hopes of making a decent breakfast. Or, more appropriately, lunch.

…

"Eric!"

Ryan couldn't keep the sheer delight of seeing his best friend unharmed out of his voice and, to be truthful, he really didn't want to. Eric was the one who was always there; who knew nearly every harsh and unforgiving truth about Ryan and stayed by his side despite it. Eric was his support and his constant reminder that Ryan had no reason to ever give up. The younger man hated those gunmen with everything he had and if they had managed to hurt Eric in any way, Ryan wasn't quite sure what he would have done in his sorrow-induced retaliation. Either way, it would have been regrettable. And permanent.

But the fact remained that Eric was perfectly safe with no war wounds to speak of. Ryan hurried over before throwing his arms around him in a celebratory hug. CSIs and officers alike lived a life that often skated on the brink of fatality. Why suppress joy? It was too precious to merely hide away.

"Whoa, whoa, Ryan. You gotta be cool, man," Eric said, laughing and returning the hug all the same.

"Cool?" Ryan asked as they broke away. He gave Eric a mother-hen glare. "Cool? You were almost shot today and you want me to be cool about it?"

"Didn't Nick tell you I was okay?"

"Yeah," Ryan admitted, giving Eric a relieved smile. "But I just wanted to see for myself."

"And does it meet your requirements? I don't even have a scratch."

Ryan frowned at the thought, but didn't reminisce the fact that Eric had been two seconds away from the end of everything.

"Hey," Calleigh protested, crossing her arms. "Don't I even get a hello?"

Ryan had seen her sitting there with Eric before his attack on his best friend. He had every intention of letting her know how much she was missed; after all, he'd barely been able to see her the past few days, but they had all been so busy that the days and nights were blurring together to form one long, continual moment.

Ryan leaned against the wall casually, as if he were considering it. He shrugged before giving her a teasing smile. "You didn't nearly die, but I guess I could acknowledge your presence."

Calleigh rolled her eyes before smiling as well. "Thanks," she replied. "And there's no reason to fuss over Eric. Horatio and Yelina did enough of that for the both of us."

"Still, I should have been here."

"You couldn't have known," she said. When Calleigh said it, it was often reassuring. She was so peaceful and calm. How did she ever achieve that sort of mind set? Ryan was constantly worrying, moving, predicting the worst-case scenarios in his head. "Even then," she continued, "I looked and couldn't find you anywhere. Were you off with Greg again? Because if you went out to eat yesterday morning, I'll have you know I was starving and you didn't even offer to pick anything up for me."

Eric laughed and Ryan felt his heart hit the bottom of his stomach. "_Someone _was with Greg last night," the older man said. "They answered the phone at two in the afternoon."

Calleigh shot Eric a curious look, her mind quickly running through a list of possible suspects. She glanced towards a stonily quiet Ryan before looking back, as if certain there was no way Ryan would take that sort of chance.

"Who?" she asked, finally breaking. "I have to know. There's been too much work and not enough gossip."

"Well," Eric said, grinning rather evilly. "He's in this room, and it certainly wasn't me."

Calleigh snapped her head back towards Ryan who gave Eric a panicked look, as if to ask _What are you trying to do to me? _Obviously, Eric's brush with death made him a bit braver and a lot mouthier.

"_What?_" Her question nearly cracked the glass around them and both Eric and Ryan visibly winced at the pitch.

Ryan felt her heat ray vision begin to sear his skin and the inevitable barrage of question beginning to formulate in her mind. This was it. This was, essentially, the end of his self-respect and dignity as he knew it. He would henceforth be the living shell of Ryan Wolfe, a man rumored to have no morals and the keen inability to look people in the eye.

"_You_ answered the phone? Why in the world would you- oh my God, did you two-? This is just so bizarre! I mean, it's _you_ we're talking about-''

"Calleigh, calm down," he began, hoping to stop her before she really got on a roll. "It's not that big of a deal."

"What made you go out on a limb like that? Did you guys go drinking?" Suddenly, her eyes went dark and she rose, marching purposefully towards him like a woman on a mission. "Did he force you? Because you never even date, much less jump in the sack-''

"Calleigh, _please_. We're at work."

"Are you sure you wanted to?"

"Am I-? Lord, Calleigh, I'm sure. You're lucky this is an empty room, but if you go out there like a woman on fire, someone's going to notice. I'm begging you to calm down."

"Calm down?" she echoed, as if not understanding the concept. She took a few steps back and let out a deep breath. "Okay, fine. I'm calm. Honest."

"And you won't mention it to Greg, right?"

"Of course. Secret's safe."

"Great. _You_ on the other hand," Ryan began, giving Eric a cool look, "Had better not say a word, got it? I'm used to public humiliation, but Greg-''

Eric held up to hands in surrender. "I just wanted to see the look on Calleigh's face," he confessed. "No one else will hear it from me."

Ryan put his hand on his hip. "And was her face worth it?"

"Priceless," Eric confirmed. "Now if you'll excuse me, there are some reports in dire need of filing."

Ryan shot him an annoyed look. "You can expect to pay for this later," he warned as Eric laughed and exited the room, leaving only Calleigh and Ryan to occupy the space. His fear of being alone with her stemmed from several others, one of which was that she'd never let up; she'd squeeze every detail out of him that she could. He supposed he owed her that much; after all, she was an endless amount of support and only wanted the best for him. But when she approached, her smile wasn't sneaky or predatory, like some gossip columnist trying to get the dirt on the latest story. It was happy and genuine. She knew of his fear and the fact that he'd overcome it made her proud.

"Is it like a fairy tale?" she whispered, tucking strands of blonde hair behind her ear. "True love and fighting off dragons?"

"Minus the dragons," Ryan replied, smiling slightly at the thought. Calleigh gave his shoulder a small squeeze.

"Love does wonders for you. You've never looked so alive," she admitted, smiling even wider. "You're kind of glowing."

"Thanks." Ryan grinned nervously at the thought, looking down at the table before meeting her eyes. "He's great."

"From that look on your face, he's more than just great."

Ryan laughed again, running his fingers through his hair. It was just a week ago that he could barely bring up the subject of his attraction to other men before completely losing it; now… now, it was different. Something had changed and this feeling was almost one of pride, of unreserved happiness.

"Yeah. He's a lot more than that," he conceded. "Funny. Talented. He's just about everything."

She gave him a wink. "And how talented is he in bed?"

"Calleigh!" This time, his entire face practically turned fuchsia. She raised her eyebrows, ginning slyly, her eyes filled with amusement.

"What?" she asked, innocently. "It was only a question."

"Cal, I swear-''

"Oh, Ryan, relax." He shot her an embarrassed glare when she began laughing even harder. "I was just curious."

"_Calleigh-_''

He followed her and her laughter out of the room.

…

"Hey Hodges," Sara greeted as she entered through the doorway of his trace lab.

David Hodges looked up warily. Sara Sidle was rarely as sweet as she was today and it was never towards him anyway. No, their battles were rude, crude, and sometimes just plain nasty; her civility was a red flag, as was the man who followed in behind her.

"Sara," David greeted in return, a sarcastic remark at the tip of his tongue. He cast his eyes over to the stranger shadowing her. Where had he seen him before? Ah, yes. He and Sanders were joined at the hip and were obviously so enthralled with each other that they wouldn't notice an exploding bomb unless it somehow managed to physically tear them apart.

David just hoped he could keep his breakfast down at the mere thought.

"Hello Miami Guy," David continued pointedly; no one seemed to want to introduce him. The guest gave David a look that was a mix of both curiosity and amusement, two things David hadn't exactly been aiming for.

"Hodges, this is Ryan Wolfe, Miami CSI. The airport just called and they need someone there ASAP. The tellers who worked the night of Ellie Jenkins' death need to be interviewed."

"An interesting story, Sidle. I don't care."

Sara rolled her eyes before crossing her arms and shooting David a look that would make the average man fear for his life. "They've been stuck in this building for almost a week. They haven't had time to learn their way around town yet."

"So you want me to chauffeur him around? Do I look like a taxi service to you?"

"Bitch and moan all you'd like, Hodges. He needs a ride and we can't spare anyone else."

"Sara-''

"It was Grissom's call. I was just given the amusing task of telling you."

"I'm a lab rat. I didn't get a Masters in chemistry so I could bus the tourists."

Their words were fast and furious and Ryan could sense the need to cut in before it escalated to an all-out war. He hadn't intended to upset someone about it; he could just as easily hail a taxi as he could hitch a ride from an upset tech who was probably more dangerous behind the wheel than any taxi driver he'd ever rode with. He hurriedly turned to Sara.

"I could catch a cab," he offered. "It's how I've been getting around anyway."

She gave him a small smile. "Don't worry. Hodges just has some anger issues."

"About driving?"

"About life. Don't let him scare you off. He's an idiot," she replied, giving David a pointed look.

"An idiot with a _Master's in chemistry_," David reiterated. "Not an idiot who happens to know how to get to the airport."

"You're an idiot either way," Sara clarified before making her way to the door. "Drive him. He needs help and you're the one who's going to do it. I'd ask Greg, but he's got so much backlog from those two creeps who tried to gun down Nick and Eric that he won't see the sun for days."

"My heart's breaking. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not exactly taking a vacation here. I've got cases-''

"My heart's breaking," Sara parroted back. "Now get him there."

At that, she exited. Ryan wished deeply that Greg could take him or that he could at least call a cab; hell, he'd prefer to _walk_ if that was what it would take to escape the evil glare of David Hodges. He hadn't known the man longer than ninety seconds, but he could already tell that it was going to be a rocky relationship.

David let out a sigh before rolling his eyes and, after giving Ryan a cool look, slipped out of his lab coat and grabbed his keys.

"So. To the airport, Robin?"

Very, very rocky.

…

"Oh my God."

It was the first thing either man had said during the entire ride over to the airport. It had been stony at first, so Ryan merely looked out the passenger window, absorbing the locals and running the case through his mind again and again, trying to find the exact point that needed to be observed. Did the airport really have anything to do with it? Ryan had the suspicion that it did; although it was just a feeling in his gut, it was that feeling that was leading him back to the last place Ellie Jenkins stopped in Las Vegas.

His driver had hardly spoken unless Ryan asked him a question. When he _did_ speak, every word was soaked with sarcasm. Most would have been intimidated and Ryan was close to it, but he had walked the beat for a while and had seen it all. The fact was that David Hodges just wasn't that easy to talk to and Ryan wasn't feeling particularly suicidal, so the drive had been pretty quiet.

But even Hodges had the right to be surprised occasionally; the sight before them wasn't only surprising, it was cause for alarm, especially for those in charge of a murder case.

It was a protest.

Moreover, it was a terrorist protest.

At a crime scene.

Which was, essentially, a recipe for disaster.

There were dozens of people; young and old, black and white, it didn't matter. The moment Ryan caught sight of their signs and posters, he knew it had hit the fan. Before he could even panic about the fact that demonstrators tended to get rowdy and ruin evidence, he and David had to actually make it through the parking lot and to the front door, a feat even Goliath would have had difficulty accomplishing.

"I wasn't aware this case had anything to do with terrorism," David muttered as the crowd quickly spotted their vehicle and began shouting even louder. It was to the point that his car could only inch forward, as the protesters had surrounded it and began banging on the windows and hood. Ryan was aghast and couldn't even manage to reply. Where the hell had this all come from?

They finally managed to make it to a parking space close to the door. As they unbuckled themselves, two officers quickly jogged from the main lobby of the airport to escort them inside. Ryan only barely managed to grab his field kit before an officer practically yanked him from an angry man who was ready and willing to give Ryan a piece of his mind using bitter words and possibly even fists.

"What the hell's going on?" It was the question Ryan wanted to ask but wasn't quite sure how to phrase. He knew it wasn't the officer's fault; someone had to have spread a rumor of some sort. It was David who angrily asked the officer once they got inside the safe confines of the airport. "This is a crime scene! What's the protest for?"

The officer could only shrug hopelessly. "They're arriving in droves but they aren't breaking the law. Technically, they're not actually on the scene."

"You can't get them to leave?" Ryan asked, taking a quick glance outside and noting the growing crowd.

"Like I said, they're not breaking any laws. They have the right to protest."

"Protest _what_? Terrorism has nothing to do with this case," Ryan noted, shooting the officer a quizzical look.

The officer could only shake his head helplessly. "It was all over the news last night. The local channels said someone called in, claiming we've taped it off because we found a bomb, not a body."

Ryan massaged his temples, the workings of a colossal migraine beginning to form. "This just got a lot harder," he sighed. He was certain Grissom and Horatio would have come themselves if they knew about the mess escalating just outside their still-active crime scene.

And he had to be honest: he was a Level 1 CSI. That's it. He rubbed his eyes, trying to straighten out his thoughts. He was a Level 1 CSI at scene by himself with an angry crowd and no idea as to what he could possibly do about it. Where did he even begin? All he had were some officers, a field kit, and… well, a lab tech that had no hope of ever getting out now. No, the entry way was pretty much off limits to anyone who valued their life.

He sent David an apologetic look. "I'm sorry. I had no idea it was going to be like this."

David rolled his eyes. "You've got to stop apologizing if you want any respect around here. But if anyone out there hurts my car, there's going to be hell to pay."

"I have no doubt there will be."

"You have any extra powder in that box?" David asked, casting his glance towards Ryan's field kit. Ryan didn't have to think twice about it; he opened it up and there were doubles of everything. He heard a whistle and couldn't stop the embarrassed blush that began creeping across his cheeks.

"Sanders was right. You've got some serious OCD issues."

"That's really rude," Ryan said, shooting him annoyed look even as he began gathering his supplies.

"Trust me, it's not rude at all. It's me making small talk."

Ryan had the distinct feeling that this _was_ David Hodges' most polite state of self; besides, it wasn't the OCD comment that was bothering him.

"Greg talks about me?" he asked, hoping to be as nonchalant as possible. David gave him a look that clearly told him there was _nothing_ casual about that question; he was as conspicuous as a fly on a wedding dress.

"Your hopefulness is almost as obvious as those clothes."

Ryan froze as still as stone. To freeze was to be obvious; however, that seemed to be his body's natural reaction and he almost couldn't move for a few horrifying moments. He turned slowly. "I beg your pardon?"

David rolled his eyes. "The clothes? Not yours. That little tag on the sleeve is Pressner and Phillips, a Las Vegas-only business."

Doom. That was all Ryan could his foresee in his future: complete and utter doom. The end of his life as he knew it. Even worse, the end of Greg's. He had heard David wasn't Greg's biggest fan and armed with hurtful knowledge was one way to make Greg's already difficult career a much harder path to follow. And although he had never been much of a liar, he had to at least try.

"I ordered them online," he muttered, turning away and gathering the supplies they would need.

"Wolfe, there are two people who run that company. They're in their seventies. A mentally challenged chimpanzee has a better chance of navigating the Internet than those two do."

Ryan's jaw set. He began tugging unconsciously at the hem of his shirt. This was rapidly beginning to present a problem.

David sighed before rolling his eyes. "Don't worry. No one's noticed."

Ryan let out a breath he didn't even know he was holding. David didn't seem to think it was that big of a deal; maybe he wouldn't blab after all. "Are you sure?"

"Does Greg Sanders have bad taste in music?"

Ryan couldn't help the silly smile that spread across his face. He didn't need to speak for David to properly read the signs; it was disgusting, wretch-inducing puppy dog love.

"I'll take that as a yes."

Ryan was prepared to respond with something just as sharp until he noticed the small gathering in the corner of the room. It was the tellers waiting for their interview. Ryan took a breath, Eric's reminder sifting through his thoughts until they were clear: _you were born to do this job_. And if he wasn't, he had a lab tech for backup.

"You know how to fingerprint?" Ryan asked as he handed David an inkpad and papers.

"With a blindfold," he confirmed.

"Good. For the next two hours, you're going to be a CSI."

"That's almost insulting, Wolfe."

However, David didn't argue. He took the supplies offered to him and they began towards the small congregation. It was a rather rag-tag assembly; there were working parents, elderly, and pierced teenagers who didn't look as if they could tell up from down.

"Good afternoon," Ryan began, quickly grabbing their attention. He tried to give them the most charming smile he could muster. "Thanks for coming. My name is Ryan Wolfe and this is David Hodges. We're in charge of a case concerning this airport." He took a calming breath. He had never been one for public speaking, especially when the audience was completely fixated on what he was saying. Besides, he and David weren't in charge _per se_, but what the audience didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

"You were all working the night of March twenty-second. David is going to take a photo and fingerprints and I'm going to ask you a series of questions in reference to that evening," he continued. "Don't be nervous. None of you are responsible for what happened. All we need for you to do is try and recall anything strange or unusual you might remember from that night."

Two hours later, the afternoon had settled into dusk. They had nineteen sets of fingerprints and eighteen similar responses from eighteen ticketers: they didn't see anything and they didn't hear anything. David finished the last set of prints. He gave Ryan a concerned look from a few feet away and Ryan shrugged his shoulders helplessly, giving him a halfhearted smile, as if to say _We've got to cover all the bases. This is going to pay off eventually._

"Hello, ma'am," Ryan said, smearing a fake smile on for the elderly woman who approached. There were no more tellers left except for her; the protesting crowd had pretty much dispersed, but Ryan had the sinking feeling that they would return ten fold the next morning, ready to set the world on fire.

"Hello Mr. Wolfe. My name is Leslie Price." The woman wore glasses and had white, curly hair. Her dress was understated and her voice was even and calm.

"Thanks for coming, Ms. Price. I know it's taken us a while."

"I'm sure it's an important case. Ask anything you'd like."

Ryan did exactly that. It was the same line of questioning the other eighteen had received and he got the same reply as he had previously. He was about to write her off; there was nothing she had to offer that was of any use. He sighed and pulled out a photo.

"Did you see this woman that night?"

It took only one glance before she replied. "I certainly did. I sold her a ticket."

Ryan stilled and David looked up at the answer. Ryan's mouth went dry and he gave her another look, one of renewed interest.

"Are you sure this is the woman you saw?"

"Absolutely. She was wearing a showgirl's dress. I thought it was rather odd myself, but this is Las Vegas. I've seen stranger things in my time."

Ryan resisted the urge to break into a celebratory song. _Finally_, they had found one person who might have seen something.

"And did anyone follow her? Was she running?"

Ms. Price bit her lip, looking thoughtful. Ryan was now a huge spark of life; it had to be the hope that was giving him the sudden energy. He was anxiously rocking on the heels of his feet, praying for answers, for a lead in some direction.

"Well," Ms. Price finally began, agonizingly slow. "She did seem rather flushed. As if she had been running, understand? She bought her ticket and I continued down the line until a rather rude young man cut to the front."

"Did you get his name?"

"No, but he held up a photo similar to yours. He asked if I just sold her a ticket."

"And what did you say?"

"I said yes, of course. He demanded I sell him a ticket right then. I told him he'd have to go to the back of the line."

"Did he?"

"He did once I threatened to call security."

"Was he either of these two men?"

Ryan pulled out two photos of the gunmen who had chased Nick and Eric down earlier. Ms. Price observed them carefully before shaking her head.

"No, it wasn't those two. It was someone else. He almost looked like her."

"What do you mean by that?"

"He had the same face shape. He just reminded me of her is all."

Ryan and David exchanged a look; they knew it was time to track down Ellie Jenkins's family. Most particularly her cousins and brothers.

Which meant he had to find Sara and Calleigh.

…

"David, what about those two gunmen? Did you get anything off their clothes?"

David shook his head as he drove them from the airport back to the crime lab. It was dark out and the traffic was forgiving, so they were making decent time with little distraction. Ryan was somewhat relieved to see that there wouldn't be such an uncomfortable silence as there was when they first set out a few hours earlier. "I gave the rest to Mia, but I don't think we're going to be able to trace anything. Brass said they wouldn't give the name of who hired them either."

"At least they'll be charged."

"Do you think that woman's story is going to help any?"

Ryan frowned. "I'm not sure. But at least we're not standing still anymore, so I think we'll make some headway." He paused a moment before speaking once more, as if he had forgotten to add his last thought. "Hey, thanks for helping with the case today. It really saved some time."

"If you're getting mushy on me, I swear I'll drop you off in the desert."

Ryan laughed. "It's not sentimentality. It's just a thank you."

"I would have left your sorry ass there if I could have actually left in the first place."

"I have no doubt that you would have."

David pulled into the parking lot of the crime lab. It usually always busy; cops, suspects, detectives, CSIs, janitors. However, Ryan immediately spotted one person he recognized. Ryan had decided the moment he first met Al Robbins five days ago that he was a pretty cool guy. He had a good personality for a man who spent most his time with the dead. He was quick, intelligent, and supportive of lost Miami CSIs who had no idea what they were doing there. Plus, he wasn't afraid to go to battle against those of sharp and thorny wit.

"Hello Doctor Robbins," Ryan said as he emerged from David's vehicle, clutching his field kit with one hand and extending the other. "It's nice to see you again."

The doctor extended his hand as well and they shook. "I see you're managing to get around these days. I'm sure David Hodges' taxi service was a pleasant experience."

Ryan gave a small laugh and David rolled his eyes. "He's not irreparably scarred, is he? I think I deserve some credit."

"It wasn't totally horrible," Ryan admitted. "I'll live to see tomorrow anyway. What about you? Dropping off files?"

"All part of the job," Robbins sighed. "That's what I'm supposed to have assistants for, but thanks to the latest round of budget cuts I'll be doing my own legwork for a while. Speaking of which, how's it going with Greg? He driven you crazy yet?"

"Greg?" Ryan asked, smiling at the question. There was certainly no way he could go into detail about it, but he wouldn't be lying if he said that they were doing perfectly well. "He's fantastic. I'm really glad I was paired with him."

"You finding your way around the lab all right?"

"Didn't take long."

"Good to hear. How are you taking to Vegas?"

Ryan had to pause a minute on that. Did he really like Las Vegas? It felt like home and yet something wasn't quite right about it. Was it the ghosts? It's history? The lights and crowds? Or the endless desert that surrounded it?

"He can't navigate his way around town if that's what you're asking," David Hodges replied, shooting the mortician an annoyed look. "How long are we going to engage in pleasantries before we get to the point?"

"For however long it pisses you off," Robbins replied casually, not even bothering to look in David's direction. David pursed his lips furiously as Ryan struggled to hide his laughter.

"Laugh now, traitor," David muttered and almost –_almost_- smiled.

…

"You got stuck with _Hodges?_" Even if Ryan hadn't heard the words, the mere look on Greg's face would have portrayed his disgust perfectly. It wasn't shock and it wasn't pity; it was genuine and unabashed horror. Greg actually stopped setting the table in favor of simply staring at Ryan in awe, almost reverence. "And you _survived_?"

In most instances, Ryan would have brushed it off and not made a big deal out of it. After all, no one had the perfect personality. So what if someone had an extra bit of hostility or impatience? That was understandable, especially if one was working long hours in a crime lab.

"It was kind of uncomfortable at first," he admitted. "He's not really easy to talk to."

"Not easy to talk to?" Greg incredulously repeated as he began laying out the silverware. "The man's a bitter brick wall! He's rude and inconsiderate. Hell, I'm surprised you didn't shoot him." Greg was shaking his head now, muttering about whether Grissom was secretly trying to shorten Ryan's life expectancy. "If you would have told me, I would have been more than happy to give you a ride."

"I know. I offered to take a taxi but Sara said Grissom was pretty set on Hodges driving me there. There wasn't much room for argument."

"I don't imagine so. Still, stuck in a confined space with Hodges longer than sixty seconds is more than most people can bear. I'm glad he returned you in one piece."

Ryan laughed. "I'm glad he did too. He's really not that bad of a guy, though. We actually got a long as the day went on. Doc Robbins knew how to handle him."

"Yeah, Al's pretty cool. The man never seems to let up about my spelling mistakes though. He seriously needs a hobby besides storing dead people in freezers."

"I'm sure spending eight hours a day in a lab gives you a perfect ten on the coolness scale."

"My coolness doesn't need a scale. I'm coolness personified."

Ryan laughed as he began to retrieve their dinner from the oven. They were eating dinner together, a surprisingly domestic act. Still, they were hungry and what better way to eat than eat with each other?

Ryan quickly set the pan next to their plates. "Our gourmet delight. Rubber noodles with artificially colored and flavored sauce, complete with tiny, freeze dried vegetables."

"Put it _that_ way," Greg said, draping his arm over Ryan's shoulders as they both stood to observe the unappealing blob that was cleverly disguised as lasagna. "And I'm tempted to just skip eating all together."

"Oh yeah?" Ryan asked, crossing his arms and raising a curious eyebrow. "What would you do then?"

Greg grinned innocently. "Oh, whose to say? I could read a good book or watch an informative show on the Discovery Channel."

"Both attractive options. Whichever will you choose?"

Greg smiled before leaning in to capture a kiss.

Despite both being hungry, the lasagna was forgotten.

…

"So how are you holding up?"

Eric was brought out of his reverie by a voice he'd gotten quite used to over the past days. He looked up and smiled at Nick who grinned tiredly in return. Eric hadn't realized that he'd been sitting in the DNA lab, staring at a computer monitor that wasn't even on. One glance at the clock told him he'd been there for at least fifteen minutes, looking at a blank screen and thinking about nothing in particular except that he'd almost died and he really needed to get some sleep if he ever hoped to get up the next night.

It had been a long day. He wasn't even sure if he could summon the energy to drag himself to a street corner and hail a cab.

"Me? I'm doing fine. How about you?"

Nick let out a small, tired laugh before sinking onto a barstool across from Eric, putting his weight against the lab's counter. "I'm sure Sara can tell you I've definitely had my share of guns pointed in my direction." He paused before smiling ruefully and running his fingers through his black hair. "It's the only part of the job that I can never get used to."

"You don't say," Eric replied, slightly amused. "I've been in tense situations before, but those guys were pretty strung out. You think we'll get anything out of them?"

Nick shrugged. "I have no idea. The only thing we CSIs can ever count on is evidence, I guess. Brass said he'd handle those two. We can head on home. Speaking of which," Nick continued, glancing around before turning back to the Floridian, "I guess Ryan won't be coming back to the hotel, huh?"

Eric ginned slyly. "I seriously doubt it. He's so love struck that he can barely remember his own name."

"He was really worried about you."

"I know, but I don't want to break his concentration. I told him I was fine and to stop worrying himself over it. He seemed to believe it."

"And are you fine?"

"Just need some sleep."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

There was a lull in their conversation before Nick spoke once more. "It's the same for Greg. He's pretty focused on Ryan right now. I just… I guess when this case wraps up, there's going to be some problems." Nick frowned before he and Eric's eyes met. They both knew Ryan and Greg understood, but it didn't seem to stop them from entering into a relationship that could only bring pain in the end.

The mere mention of the inevitable dilemma sent Eric's heart slamming to the floor. He looked up, giving Nick a once over, hoping to burn the image into his mind permanently.

Because that's as far as he was going to allow himself to get involved.

"You want a ride?" Nick asked, patting his jacket down for his keys.

"Ride?" Eric echoed before realizing that Nick had, in fact, been his ride the entire day. It would only make sense even if hailing a taxi might have been wiser.

"Yeah, sure."

…

The ride had been in comfortable silence despite the circumstances. Eric gazed out the window, taking in the city so famous for its glamour and lights. To him, it was nothing; just another city where people could lose everything and often did. He wasn't sure he could ever live there and hoped he never had a reason for needing to.

When they finally pulled up to the hotel, Nick shut the engine off and it was quiet. There were noises outside; the beeping of car horns, the talk of tourists, the whispers of ghosts, but mostly it was just the two of them and their beating hearts and soft breathing.

"I'm sorry this day turned out to be so screwed up," Nick finally said, sending an apologetic smile Eric's way.

Eric laughed slightly in return before shaking his head. "Not your fault. If it weren't for the guns and insane henchmen, I'd say it turned out pretty well. We're making way on the case."

"Yeah. I've gotta agree that the absence of guns would have made it better."

Another silence fell, one that was charged with words. The two men knew what they wanted to say but couldn't bear to broach the subject. Nick would return to his dark and lonely home; Eric would open the door to his empty and impersonal hotel room, complete with _Miami Vice _reruns. It would be as it always was but it would also be safe; you had to take one or the other, but you couldn't have both.

They had kissed.

That morning, they had kissed in a relieved, hysterical moment. The kiss had been charged with energy, relief, despair, thankfulness, desperation; it had been a kiss long since been coming and yet neither could seem to bring it up. It desperately needed to be addressed but the two couldn't seem to speak.

However, neither could sit there all morning. Not in a silent car where a heavy cloud hung between them, making their current situation foggy and their emotions even worse. There had to be air.

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow," Eric finally said, gathering his coat and moving to open the car door. "Thanks for showing me around today. It was great to have real food."

Nick looked away for a moment, as if waging a war in his head before coming to some sort of conclusion. He quickly leaned, grabbing Eric's wrist. Time. Time was everything. He couldn't let it slip away.

"Wait," he whispered, his voice sounding strangled and unsure. He truly and honestly had no idea what the hell he was doing, what he was willing to get himself into. But more than anything, he wanted to try.

Eric stopped his motions immediately. His skin burned from where Nick's skin was on his and he shot Nick a surprised look.

"What is it?"

Nick quickly let go of Eric's wrist before taking a deep breath, hesitant to speak. "I… I'm not really sure how to say this. I mean, I've never done anything like this before and it's… strange, I guess."

Nick glanced up at the other man before laughing at his own stupidity. "I'm making no sense, am I?"

Eric grinned. "Hate to say it, Nick, but no. I need single syllable words. I've never been good at reading people."

Nick laughed again, not truly able to meet Eric's eyes before he said the words he knew would change things permanently without any way out. Move lips, make sounds, form words. But that was how people changed the courses of their lives: by speaking and acting. And he had to, no matter what anyone else might have thought; Grissom or his parents or his friends were irrelevant. It was his life now and he didn't want to live it only halfway.

"What I'm trying to say is that I'm really attracted to you."

Eric never thought he would hear those words and he gave Nick a stricken look. Nick smiled helplessly before shaking his head and almost laughing. "But I guess you know that already."

TBC.

…

A/T: Whew! This took a lot of willpower, friends. It was one of those "I know what I want to say, I just don't know how to go about writing it" chapters. It's taken a while, hasn't it? I hope you aren't getting bored and I hope this still makes sense! It'll speed up eventually. I just wanted to add a few cute, domestic moments to fill that cavity.

Be prepared! Chapter 8 includes romance, a suspect (finally!), and Ryan taking David's advice: it's time to take a stand. Also, I'm forced to tackle this Nick/Eric pairing that I never should have unleashed!


	8. From Here

A/T: Hello out there! -waves- I will absolutely finish this, it just takes a while. Here's to hoping you don't get too tangled up in the case and that the world still loves Greg and Ryan as much as I do!

FYI: Please remember that the victim and Brass's daughter aren't the same. To reduce confusion, I thought about changing the victim's name and the figured it would only prove to be even more confusing. Like I said before, I wasn't a complete _CSI_ dictionary until the first few chapters of this was already written. Forgive me, but I know your intelligence can prove itself when reading this. Ellie Jenkins. Ellie Brass. Not the same gal. (It's my mistake, but you're paying for it. Mwahaha! )

Oh, and I picked up some Las Vegas maps from Barnes and Nobles. The roads I mention are real, but probably incredibly wrong. I really did try to research, so if there are any Las Vegas residents reading this, don't laugh. Well, okay. You can laugh a little, but don't tell anyone about it.

For catlover2x, kahlualeia, nigaishin, and quasilogical. You'll never meet anyone cooler than these folks.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Never mine. Always wishing they were mine. It's the story of our lives.

Out With It  
Chapter 8: Running, Breathing, Standing Here

**You have absorb'd me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving.  
**-John Keats to Fanny Brawne, _1819_

_What I'm trying to say is that I'm really attracted to you._

In defense of Eric's CSI abilities, the kiss had given him that nagging suspicion that maybe Nick _did_ have a thing for him. You know, possibly. If he wasn't looking too deeply into it.

But even the most casual observer could tell him that he was, without a doubt, the stupidest man to walk the planet. Because what had he done? Had he told Nick he felt the same? Had he returned the kiss? Had he offered him _any_ indication that he wasn't completely repulsed?

No.

He had given him some crappy story about… what had it been about again? The moment was so rushed and blurry that he couldn't even recall what had been said. The only thing he was certain of was this: the excuse he had given was undoubtedly transparent and weak. "I have to meet Ryan to review the case" or "I really need to get some sleep" or "This conversation we're having is making me uncomfortable, so let's forget the last twenty four hours ever happened and move on."

Eric had left Nick in the truck. That's all he could really remember: he left him deflated and confused. Eric had rushed up to his room, only to find it empty like he knew it would be. He dropped his kit on the floor and peered out his window to the parking lot where Nick's vehicle was still occupying a space. He swallowed hard. Nick had gotten out and was pacing nervously, walking a dozen feet in one direction down the sidewalk before turning and walking the opposite way and repeating this action several times.

He wanted to go back, to change what he had said or, more appropriately, _didn't_ say. He wanted to open the window and lean out and call Nick up to him, bring him to his room, apologize in the most intimate way possible.

_But I guess you knew that already._

He did. He knew.

He had just been too cowardly to face it.

He watched as Nick got back into the truck, reversed, and drove out onto the street before disappearing from Eric's line of sight. Eric felt himself grow sick and his internal screaming wasn't helping much. _What are you doing? Why are you letting him go?_

He let out a sigh as he flopped onto a cold mattress, arms outstretched and gazing at an increasingly familiar ceiling. This wasn't supposed to happen; he was supposed to fly to Las Vegas, solve a murder, and fly back home to Miami, where he so rightfully belonged. Meeting someone as amazing as Nick was never part of the equation; he was unprepared and stumbling blindly through the entire process, failing over and over again, repeatedly making a fool of both his and Nick's affections. He, like Ryan, was awkward through the whole ordeal, but Ryan had taken the plunge into dark and murky waters, only to emerge victorious with a sunken treasure in his hands.

Eric thought it was ironic that _he_ was the underwater recovery specialist and yet he wouldn't even approach the shore.

…

"Hey Cal!" Ryan called once he spotted a familiar head of blonde hair amongst the sea of busy lawyers, drowsy detectives, and swing shift stragglers. Calleigh and Sara turned from their animated conversation with Archie Johnson to see who was calling their names; Calleigh lit up when she saw that it was Ryan battling the swarm and making his way towards them.

"Hey stranger," she greeted, gracing him with a smile. "What's up?"

"Hopefully a lead," he replied, turning and giving Sara a polite nod so as to not dismiss her from the conversation. "Hi Sara."

"Hey yourself. Just getting in?"

"Yeah," he replied, fighting the yawn that threatened to make itself known. "Haven't even gotten around to stealing some of Greg's coffee yet."

"You're so lucky to be partnered up with him," she groused, allowing herself a small sigh. "What I wouldn't do for a cup of that stuff. Think you can grab me a little while he's got his back turned?"

"He won't even notice it's missing," Ryan confirmed. She grinned before turning to Archie and slinging her left arm around his neck in a purely platonic manner.

"Have you met Archie Johnson, audio visual tech and self-certified Trekkie?"

Ryan grinned and extended his hand. "A whole week and I still haven't met the man who went through a hundred hours of airport footage."

Archie laughed, taking the chance to shake the offered hand. "Thanks. Yelina and Warrick suffered with me, but I amused myself by teaching them to speak Klingon."

"If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were completely serious."

Archie gave him a bright smile. "Yelina can say 'This pencil is yellow' with such flourish that Worf would be proud."

Ryan had the distinct feeling that Archie had, in fact, taught Yelina a couple of Klingon phrases. He made a mental note to ask her about it later; after all, he wanted to make sure that this trip wasn't completely un-educational. Either way, Ryan was certainly amused at the thought. _Star Trek_ didn't exactly spur Yelina's creative senses or passionate heart.

"Hey Arch! Have you got those dispatch recordings ready yet?" called a voice from down the hall. The four turned to see who was speaking; it was Catherine, peering from the corner. She gave them all a friendly wave from before pointing to Archie and indicating for him to follow her. Archie sighed and Sara patted his shoulder encouragingly. Ryan's genuine sympathies went out to him; it seemed as if Archie was pulling several shifts in succession with little time to sleep.

"Well," he said, evidently unenthused about the task at hand, "Duty calls. It was nice to meet you, Ryan."

"Same to you. Maybe you can teach Yelina to say 'Ryan deserves a promotion' tonight."

"And then after that, you can coach her in saying 'Ryan is delusional,'" Calleigh suggested. Ryan couldn't help but laugh at that; Calleigh shot him a teasing smile while Archie nodded in agreement.

"I'll see what my amazing abilities of persuasion can do. See you guys later," he promised. Calleigh and Sara chorused their farewells as he turned and began towards his lab.

Calleigh shook her head, apparently charmed. "I like him," she confessed. "Tyler totally needs to learn an alien language."

"Archie's great," Sara concurred. "He really can speak Klingon, you know."

"I wouldn't put it past him," Ryan replied. "Can he even do that 'V' sign that Spock does with his hands?"

"It's a natural reflex for him," Sara confirmed, holding up her left hand and attempting to do Spock's trademark 'live long and prosper' gesture. When she failed three times in a row, she sighed and gave up, surrendering herself to more pressing matters. "So Ryan, I'm sure you didn't track us down for our conversational skills alone. What's the buzz?"

"I wanted to ask what you guys have on Ellie Jenkins's family," Ryan answered. "We're track down her brother. Greg and I are leaving with Captain Brass in a few minutes and I really need to brush up on her background."

"Both of her parents are deceased," the brunette informed. "They died in a car accident four years ago, but she does have a brother named Christopher."

"Aunts? Uncles?" Ryan queried. Sara took a moment, trying to remember, before holding up her index finger, signaling for him to wait. "I'll get you the file on her family," she offered. "Be right back."

Before he could put a word in edgewise, she was off like lightening, vanishing down the foyer. Ryan slowly turned to Calleigh.

"She's an interesting one," he observed. The blonde could only nod, giving him a small smile.

"Just a little dark," she replied. "She's had it pretty tough, but I've never met anyone so dedicated to this job. Anyway, I adore her. She's fabulous."

"Fabulous?"

"Absolutely," Calleigh replied, laughing a little. "I'm glad we're partnered up. Last time we had to travel for a case, it was in the middle of Nebraska. I was assigned a forty year old divorcee who kept trying to feel me up."

Ryan's jaw dropped. "And what? You didn't report him?"

Calleigh shrugged. "One direct hit in the man's sensitive area and he was hands off after that."

Ryan inwardly shuddered. "Ouch."

"He seemed to agree. So tell me, Mister Wolfe, what's driving you to look up the vic's brother?"

"A witness said a man who looked a lot like Ellie made a big scene the night she got on the plane. I'm hoping it was family resemblance."

"Siblings have similar features," she agreed. "Did he buy a ticket?"

"Yeah. This might be the break we need."

"That would be great," Calleigh said, noticeably enthusiastic about the possibility. "We've been here almost a week and we're not having much luck. Maybe you can break the case and get that huge promotion you were dreaming about."

Ryan rolled his eyes. "And the weatherman forecasted clouds and a chance of pigs flying, Cal. I don't think so."

"You doubt yourself too much," she commented, shaking her head disapprovingly. "You and Greg are blazing the trail. Hodges even said so."

"Hodg-? Wait, you mean David?"

Calleigh paused a moment. "It's what everyone else calls him. What, does he like being called differently?"

"No, it's not that," Ryan replied, slightly startled by the news. "I just wasn't aware he thought we were any good."

"Sara tells me that it takes a wild boar to beat a compliment out of him, so you should feel like walking on water. Your talents are obviously coming through to people."

As she spoke, her gaze fell over Ryan's shoulder, her eye trained on something behind him. He followed her line of sight until he saw Sara and Greg laughing over a joke between them, a file in Sara's hand as they both moved towards the two Floridians.

"And by the way," Calleigh whispered, making sure to keep her voice low so they couldn't hear her following words. "I see the way Greg looks at you. I'm completely jealous."

Ryan felt the tips of his ears burn, but before he could open his mouth to rebuke anything, Sara and Greg had found them. "What's so funny?" the blonde questioned, ignoring Ryan's obvious embarrassment and addressing the two cases of giggles before her.

"Oh, nothing. I found Greg making a paper crane out of Griss's crossword puzzle again. Obviously, he has some sort of death wish," Sara replied, shaking her head at the other man's antics.

"Crossword puzzles?" Ryan inquired, out of the loop in regards to the inside joke.

"Don't worry your pretty little head over it," Greg retorted, giving him a grin. "It's just my neck on the line."

Ryan would have investigated further on Greg's odds of dying, but time was pressing him towards a more vital appointment.

"We're supposed to meet with Captain Brass in about five minutes," Ryan informed, glancing at his watch, making sure there was no way he could run late. "Want to head on out?"

He glanced back at Greg, who was looking expectedly at Sara. Sara, in response, crossed her arms and raised her left brow. "Well?" she asked. "Aren't you going to answer the man?"

Greg's eyes flew open and he quickly turned to Ryan. "_We_? Both of us? Really?" Greg asked. If possible, Ryan was certain the other man's ears would have literally perked up.

"Yeah. Christopher Jenkins, the brother? We're taking him in."

"_We?_"

Ryan gave him a strange look. "I thought I just said that."

"You did, but _we_. _Us. _As in two or more people. Who's going to man trace?"

"I asked David. He said he'd handle it until we got back."

"What, _Hodges_ said yes? Why didn't he say yes to me when _I_ asked? Where's the tech bond? The brotherhood?"

"I have this suspicion that he just doesn't like you."

Greg gave him puppy-dog eyes. "Who can resist this face, lover?"

Ryan flushed a deep red as Calleigh gave an un-ladylike snort of laughter; Sara merely gave a polite cough. This was obviously news to her, but she quickly sent Ryan a thumbs-up of support.

Greg went on as if the two women weren't even present. "And anyway, why say yes to you when he knows me better?"

"Because I don't get on his nerves?"

Greg paused a moment. "Oh. Is that the problem we've been having all these years? Am I annoying to him?"

"That's a question you might want to save for him personally."

They began down the hall, Ryan having graciously taken the family file to be reviewed on the drive over to Christopher Jenkins's place of residence. Sara and Calleigh watched them go, noting the absence of space between the two men. They were unconsciously close together, Greg making Ryan laugh despite the dark circumstances.

…

"Don't tell me I'm stuck with you, Sanders," Jim Brass muttered as he watched Ryan and Greg approaching him in the parking lot, dusk falling around the city and the moon emerging from the clouds. Although Las Vegas (like many other cities) never slept, the crime lab was alight with activity and brilliance when most of the Western Hemisphere was curling up to get some shut-eye. In a bizarre way, the CSIs who worked the graveyard shift lived completely different lives than those who walked the more beaten career paths. What they saw and experienced each night were things most others wouldn't dream of doing even once in their lifetime. And somehow, amazing people like Greg Sanders managed to keep their spirits up and humor about them.

Greg shot a quizzical look Ryan's direction when he heard Jim speak. "Okay, it's one thing for Hodges to think I'm annoying, but what's the _deal_?"

Ryan only laughed and shook his head at Greg's playfully exasperated tone. How did anyone think Greg was bothersome? Sure, he played loud music and lived with a unique personality, but it was part of him. The only thing Ryan would change was Greg's unhealthy habit of letting food sit in the refrigerator, allowing it to ferment over a decade's time.

"So this is the detective we're going to be working with?" Ryan asked rather uncertainly as they drew closer to the stern looking man. It wasn't that Jim Brass seemed cold by any means; he just seemed… serious. Which, Ryan knew, was a good thing. Frank Tripp in Miami had no idea what science gadget Horatio was going to pull out next, but you better believe he was going to arrest the guilty party when said science gadget uncovered the evidence. Jim Brass had a similar persona –maybe it was the same for all detectives- and Ryan knew that they were in capable hands.

"Jim? He's great. Underneath that rough exterior lies a sweet, fuzzy guy that secretly adopts puppies off the street. You'll love him," Greg whispered in reply.

The mental image of Captain Brass surrounded by cute puppies now haunting him, Ryan advanced with what he hoped was a solemn expression. He took a deep breath before sending the man a confident smile and sticking out his hand. "Ryan Wolfe, Miami. Pleasure to meet you."

"Jim Brass, likewise. I see you drew the short straw this time around," he began, walking to the driver's side of the car, his tone one of pure conversational observation.

"Sir?" Ryan asked uncertainly.

Brass made a motion over to Greg with a tilt of his head. "You're partnered with Sanders. He's gotta have you drinking by now."

"Now Jimmy, that just isn't fair," Greg replied, giving him a mock-pout. "I didn't have you drinking until _two_ weeks after we began working together."

Ryan grinned as he buckled up in the passenger seat, Greg having chosen to sprawl out in the back.

"He's not that bad," Ryan answered. "The worst part's the music. Ever heard Alien Ant Farm on surround sound?"

"The question is whether I've heard Alien Ant Farm at all," Jim replied. "And luckily, I haven't."

"'Luckily' being the operative word."

"Are you both going to conspire against me now?" Greg asked, fake distress tinting his voice. "I happen to be very fair when we have our radio station battle."

"That's true," Ryan agreed. "Sometimes he lets me listen to whatever I want."

"And what horrid music style do you torment him with?" Jim asked, an amused smile playing on his lips as they navigated out of the parking lot and onto the main road.

There was another patrol car escorting the Captain and two CSIs; they trailed behind them, following intently. Two armed officers were prepared for whatever may be waiting at their destination, be it a safe false alarm or death defying shoot out. Ryan glanced into his rearview mirror, observing the car and the two faceless officers who were inside. He used to be one of them; there was always a quick fix to be slapped onto any situation. That seemed like such a long time ago. What if he hadn't decided to make that jump and become a CSI? He certainly would have never met Greg.

He grinned, returning to the conversation and trying to let his overactive thoughts fade away. "The Cure. Good musicians for the eighties, but more depressing than a dead tree in the middle of winter."

Greg let out a horrified groan from the back seat. "It's terrible, Jimmy. He knows I can only handle so much of it before I want to tear out the stereo system all together."

"So let me get this straight," Jim began, giving Ryan a look of praise. "You like to torment Sanders?"

"It's the reason I get up every morning," Ryan replied.

"Then you and I are going to get along just fine."

Ryan had to laugh at this before realizing that all the nervous energy he had before their plane ever touched down in Las Vegas had all but disappeared. He was, believe it or not, actually fitting in.

"So what's in the file?" Jim asked, glancing over to the manila envelope in Ryan's hands. "Anything interesting?"

Ryan quickly flipped it open. "Miranda and Thomas were the parents," he replied, scanning photos and information for more to work with. "They only had two kids. Grandparents are deceased, no aunts or uncles that live here in Las Vegas and no immediate family to speak of."

"So what, the kids grow up in an orphanage?"

"No, it looks like they died when Ellie was seventeen and Christopher was nineteen. They lived on their own after that."

"Where'd they stay?"

"A trailer park, I think. Looks like Ellie got her feet on the ground and started working. Maybe she didn't want to live with her brother anymore."

"Yeah, but she got a job at a club as a dancer," Jim replied, a tinge of doubt coloring his voice. "Wasn't she too young?"

"According to this," Ryan replied, "She was exactly twenty one. She'd been working at a book shop until then."

"Barely scraping the legal age limit," Jim muttered. "Why can't she just get a job at a fast food joint?"

"Jimmy, she got a job as a showgirl, not a stripper," Greg quickly replied. "And even if she was, being a stripper isn't a license to get killed."

There was a pause in the conversation before Jim muttered, "I really wish you'd stop calling my 'Jimmy', Sanders."

They discussed possible theories as they drove on, both Greg and Ryan feeling free to express their theories without fear of looking stupid in front of those who knew better. Jim was a laid back kind of guy, taking things as they came. Ryan had the impression that the man had been around the block more the once and had seen and heard it all.

Twenty minutes later, they had passed the scarier part of town and drove into an area of trailer parks, all sprawled out and in no "neighborhood" form to speak of. Ryan watched as blinds were peeked through, those who resided in the trailers curious but unfazed as two patrol cars zigzagged through their park. Bits of chain link fence separated the homes; they didn't completely square them all off, but there was enough of a barrier to tell which piece of property belonged to who. There were various broken down vehicles littering the yards, such as they were. There were free roaming pets and children playing on beaten down toys and plastic slides. Frankly, it was the ideal "trailer trash" scenario, although Ryan refrained from labeling it as such. Trash came in every step of the American hierarchy; just because you lived in a rough neighborhood didn't mean you were trash and just because you could afford Armani suits didn't mean you weren't.

Finally, after a short drive onward, Jim stopped in front of a trailer just on the outskirts of the community. Looking through the windows of one side of the trailer and one could see neighbors and parts of the city; the other side revealed nothing but miles of merciless desert.

"Pretty abandoned looking for a guy who's supposed to be living here," Jim muttered as he, Greg and Ryan emerged from the vehicle. There was a little frown on Jim's face, as if he had been through this countless times before and knew exactly what was going to go down. Even with a rundown truck parked in front of the residence, it still looked uninhabited. Had Ellie's brother made a run for it? Ryan's blood coursed. The brother wouldn't run unless he had something to hide. Why hadn't they picked up on this before?

Jim was slowly withdrawing his weapon. He motioned for the two patrol officers to do the same before glancing to Greg and Ryan, silently ordering them to wait until they were in the clear. Greg and Ryan exchanged anxious glances but consented; they knew there was something wrong as well.

The three armed men warily approached the house before one quickly jogged to the other side, making sure their suspect couldn't slither through the back exit.

Jim knocked forcefully on the door. "Christopher Jenkins, this is the LVPD. Open up."

At the lack of action from inside the house (no voice, no compliance, no life of any sort) ten seconds later, Jim knocked once more, visibly tense. "Christopher Jenkins, LVPD! I would advise you to open this door or it'll be opened by force!"

When no response came, Jim nodded to the officer next to him and they proceeded to kick the door open, leaving it looking tattered and busted. Ryan held his breath, edginess washing over him. He had kicked in enough doors in his time to know that it was rarely a good sign, especially when an uncooperative witness was holed up inside. Beside him, he could feel Greg hold his breath, his knuckles white around the handle of his field kit.

On the upside, there was no arguing or gunfire from inside the house, which meant zero struggle. On the downside, there was no noise at all, which equaled zero confirmation that the scene was clear.

A fleeting moment passed that felt more like an hour. They both stood silently, Greg leaning on the car, his breathing even, like a human clock that told time in a manner foreign to time itself. Another moment, another breath, a continuous pattern. But a movement disrupted the pattern; Ryan sucked in a quick breath as he saw a man fall from the ceiling right in front of the doorway, obviously having hid in an attic of some sort. Ryan watched as he shot out the front door, a pale blur to the human eye.

When the man caught sight of the two CSIs, he glanced uncertainly from Greg to Ryan before shooting off to the right, obviously having made his silent decision. Not even a millisecond of uncertainty passed before Ryan dropped his field kit and began furiously after him.

He could hear Greg's panicked, "RYAN! WAIT!" but quickly left the range of earshot, his eyes trained on the fleeing character before him. His CSI tendencies quickly kicked in despite the circumstances: male, white, average height and build, dark hair, pale skin, wearing black from collar to sneaker.

He didn't try and get the man's attention by yelling; it would have been a waste of precious breath. Instead, he concentrated on not losing sight of him and not tripping in his frantic scurry to keep up.

The man assumed to be Christopher Jenkins paused at the corner of the sidewalk, looking around frantically and trying to deduce the best way to shake off his pursuer before he decided to make a sharp left, Ryan not missing a beat and quickly following behind, his breath beginning to hitch and his chest tightening. He couldn't let him out of his sight.

They would never find him if he did.

The trailer park domain was quickly becoming part of the battered downtown area, where dark, ominous alleys were of the norm and litter was strewn across abused sidewalks. The buildings were mainly abandoned; those that weren't were crack houses and gang hangouts. Only the bravest or stupidest walked these streets, even in the middle of the day. To be running through said sidewalks donning a police vest was like painting a red bulls-eye on his chest before proclaiming 'Come and get me!' in the middle of the street; in other words, he was either very brave or very stupid. It was quite possible that he was both.

Christopher continued his wild spur forward, Ryan hot on his heels. A few potheads taking a smoke sat lazily on crumbling steps of the buildings and watched with half interest, as if the scene was an everyday occurrence. Ryan tried to see ahead, where Christopher might turn next. It was a four-way intersection.

Christopher, unlike last time, didn't pause to see where he would turn next. He took another sharp left and continued on, obviously loosing the adrenaline, not that Ryan was a ball of energy either. However, this didn't deter him. Ryan gathered strength from every muscle he had and kept up his rapid pace, hoping to gain at least _some_ ground before any other measure was taken.

"Christopher Jenkins! LVPD!" he yelled over the rush of air passing his ears. Unable to think of anything more complex or even intimidating at the moment, he finished the bellowed introduction with an unintentionally desperate, "Stop running!" The man heard and, obviously spurred by this reminder, made his body increase its speed. Ryan forced his body to do the same.

They were swiftly approaching an underprivileged but less seedier part of town, successfully gathering bewildered and sometimes frightened stares from those they forced off the sidewalk. An increased number of people was a double edged sword; Christopher could be slowed by the surplus of pedestrians, but Ryan could as well. He didn't allow his eyes to leave the white skull stitched on the back of Christopher's hoody.

The longer they ran, the longer the city blocks became. By then, Ryan was gasping for breath, trying desperately not to slow. _Runrunrunrunrunrun._ It was his mantra and he was sticking to it; whether it would be the death of him or not was still up for debate.

It was at that moment that a young mother and her toddler stepped out of a small thrift store. The mother turned to close the door behind her and by the time they reached the bottom of the sidewalk, it was too late to escape the furiously treaded paths of a criminal and a criminalist.

Christopher, unable to stop himself in time, bowled the young mother over, the two of them becoming a tangle of limbs on the concrete. If this wasn't a miracle then it was something close to it and Ryan used his last extra burst of strength to catch up before Christopher could scramble to his feet and continue on.

Christopher was already rising from his crash, trying to make a break for it, when Ryan finally reached out, grabbed his hoody, and restrained him from moving any further. He clutched the fabric between his fingers, not letting go. Christopher, in a rage, turned and threw a wild punch in the general vicinity of where Ryan stood, but the CSI had seen it coming and took a small duck from harms way. What he had not seen coming, however, was the immediate deploy of Christopher's second fist that went straight to his gut, knocking the air right out of him.

Ryan felt himself grow sick as he tumbled to the ground; Christopher was turning, beginning to run…

No. No way. No _way_ was Ryan chasing after him again. Ryan felt himself rise once more, his body trembling but he absolutely couldn't let him get away for a second time. All of his energy was gone and he felt like stone, even as he was moving. Christopher was turning the corner and-

Ryan watched in a dazed awe as Greg bolted from behind the corner and basically tackled him back to the ground. He was a little awkward at it, but was visibly taking the precautions, making sure that there was no way their culprit could press charges for unnecessary force. A tussle began between Greg and their intended target. Where had Greg come from? The Floridian wasn't sure, but God, what a beautiful sight to behold; no more running madly after a man who was, admittedly, a bit faster that that of his pursuer.

Ryan's days on the patrol were swiftly kicking in. He quickly moved forward, grabbing the back of Christopher's wrists and hauling the protesting man to his feet. He pushed the man face first against a brick wall of a deserted building.

Greg pulled out his cell phone, shooting Christopher a dark look, his breathing violent and harsh. It took only a second before Brass picked up on the other line.

"Hey Brass, it's Greg. We're on Spring Canyon and Spanish Gate. Yeah, we got him. We're fine. Okay, sure. Two streets down? Awesome."

Greg flipped his phone shut and staggered over to the two, giving Christopher an evil stare. "So when he said," Greg began, panting for much-needed oxygen and leaning on the wall to hold his worn-out body, "'Stop running', what part of that did you misinterpret for 'go faster'?"

Christopher looked as if he wanted to speak, but didn't have the breath to do so. Instead, he twitched violently, trying to squirm out of Ryan's grasp.

Greg ignored him and drifted over to the mother and her child, both of which were still numbly sprawled out on the ground. He stuck out his hand and the woman clutched onto it, unsteadily standing before bending to pick up her sobbing toddler. She gave both CSIs a look as if perhaps they were crazy before turning and running off in the opposite direction.

Greg watched as she did so before turning to his partner. "Wise woman," he observed. "She's getting the hell outta Dodge."

Ryan's oxygen deprived mind could only ask (despite wondering if Greg had picked up the "outta Dodge" phrase from Nick), "How did you know where we were?"

"As a long-time resident of Las Vegas, I've learned my way around. I ran with you for a while because I could see you through the chain link fence. But when you got to the buildings, I lost sight. I saw our man of the hour make a left, so I took some back alleyways and waited at the corner. I could tell from the screams of the old ladies you pushed out of the way that you were still coming this direction."

"Very CSI-ish of you."

"I like to think I learned from the best."

Ryan raised an eyebrow, his hold still tight around his suspect. "Oh? And who might that be?"

"Well, besides Grissom, Nick, Warrick, Catherine, and Sara-''

"Cute, Greg. Very cute."

Greg grinned, ignoring the filthy swears Christopher was shelling his way. "Well, I wasn't going to let you chase after him alone. Unfortunately, I think I ruined my new pair of shoes in someone's puddle of puke in one of those alleys. It just goes to show that I can be fashionable or employable, but not both."

"We'll buy a new pair. Maybe next time you shouldn't bring stuff you love to work with you, though."

"Then you're staying home."

Ryan felt himself turn a distinct shade of pink just as Jim drove up to the scene.

…

"So. Christopher Jenkins, is it?"

Jim Brass's voice carried off the walls calmly as a twenty-six year old man sat across from him.

"Yes."

Christopher's voice was cold and clipped. He shot Jim, Gil, and Horatio a dark look.

"You're Ellie Jenkins's brother, correct?"

"Yes."

"And when's the last time you saw her?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Of course you do. Think back," Jim replied. Horatio and Gil were silent on either side of him, observing closely. Christopher set his jaw firmly.

"I don't remember. A week ago?"

"Very good. You get a gold star," Jim replied sardonically. "Eight days ago, where were you?"

"Working."

"Chris, we're going contact your boss and ask if you were working that day. When they say no, you'll be in some deep shit. If, in the rare instance they say yes, we're going to form a timeline and you'll _still_ be in deep shit. Save us the time, would you?" Jim snapped, throwing down a file impatiently. "Ellie, your sister. Did you see her eight days ago or not?"

Christopher shrugged nonchalantly. "Probably. Don't know."

"Okay, let's try this another way," Gil interjected. "You say you saw her a week ago. Was she planning a trip?"

The man opposite of them shrugged again. "Don't know."

"If you weren't aware that she was planning to leave, did you realize after a few days that she was missing?"

"I guess."

"Why didn't you report it?" Horatio asked, looking placidly over to their suspect.

"Didn't care."

"She was your _sister_, dumb ass. Why the hell didn't you care?" Jim asked, scowling over the table.

"She was a fag. Didn't know where she was, didn't care what happened to her. When she came out of the closet, I kicked her to the curb."

"I'm sure that was a huge loss on her part," he viciously replied. Christopher rolled his eyes.

"Look man, you don't scare me. I know my rights."

"Wow. You're a smart guy then, aren't you? If you know your rights, then you oughta know the law. Just so we understand each other, killing people is _against_ the law."

"Whatever. Can I go now?"

"Sure," Horatio replied, closing the open file in front of him and leaning back into his chair, draping his right foot over his left knee, completely composed. "An officer can escort you to a jail cell."

"What the hell?" Christopher asked, slamming his palms against the table angrily. "Why?"

"Reckless endangerment? Evading an officer? Kid, that's just for starters," Jim supplied. "And we're going to need a DNA sample. Are you going to make this difficult too?"

"Will it piss you off?" he snapped, sending a loathing look their way.

"On he contrary," Horatio calmly replied. "We thrive on complications."

"Makes the job more interesting," Gil continued, opening a silver kit and taking out a long, white swab. "Now say 'ah'."

Christopher looked as if he wanted to argue, but knew that they were going to get some of his DNA no matter how much he protested. He opened his mouth, revealing straight, white teeth. Before their untimely deaths, his parents had obviously cared enough for him to give him braces and the best of what they could afford.

Gil swabbed the side of Christopher's mouth before pausing a moment, Christopher's hoody having fallen around his neck. The skin showing was marred with black ink. Grissom stopped a moment to observe it. "Is this a tattoo of the swastika?" he asked, his voice the epitome of conversational etiquette.

"Yeah. Got it when I was nineteen," the teenager replied, almost as if he was proud of the mark that now branded him.

"Did you know the swastika was designed about sixth century B.C? The Hindus said in brought luck, represented the sun and reincarnation. The Indians used it, Asians, entire European cultures." He gave Christopher a steady look. "But that's not what you intended it to mean when you got this tattoo, did you?"

The man gave him a grin, clearly indicating his answer; still, he didn't confirm Grissom's theory. "What's it to you?"

"It's nothing to us," Gil replied simply. "Only that you proudly wear the Nazi symbol. I suppose you know the history behind the movement and what they did during the Second World War?"

"Absolutely."

"They killed and tortured millions of innocent people."

"They made it stand for something worthwhile."

Ryan and Greg stood behind the mirror, watching the interview with rapture. Greg was glaring at him, as if hoping his withering stare might somehow penetrate the glass and strike Christopher where he was sitting. Ryan, on the other hand, was calmer but no less upset.

It seemed clear that their suspect wasn't going to give anymore information that evening; rare were the suspects that spilled the beans before getting their estimated prison sentence first. Ryan's entire body ached and Greg didn't look as if he was faring any better.

"It's been a long day," Greg finally whispered, his hand ghosting across Ryan's. "Let's go home. What do you say?"

Ryan gave him a small smile. Greg was unconsciously using the term "home" and it sounded so incredibly right. "I say that sounds great."

They were exiting the small room together when a voice stopped them mid-trek; it was Jim, talking with Horatio and Gil as two officers took Christopher away.

"Let me tell you, Gil, you should've seen them. Wolfe was running like a fire was after him."

Horatio turned from his two companions to observe the subjects of Jim's recollection. There was a small smile on his face as his blue eyes swept over Ryan and Greg from a few feet away.

"I hear you two ran down our prime suspect. I wanted to congratulate you."

Ryan cleared his throat, uncomfortable at the attention his three superiors were giving him. He took a self-conscious look around, making sure that no one was watching or listening in. "Yes sir," he confirmed, hoping to end the conversation as soon as possible. "It was…"

"Exhausting. I've sworn off junk food for at least the next three days, or until Catherine brings in a box of Krispy Kreams, whichever comes first," Greg finished. Ryan couldn't help but relax at the enthusiastic voice of Greg and his ability to feel at home with just about anyone.

"Horatio," Ryan began, unable to stop his small laugh, "Have you met Greg?"

Greg stuck out his hand enthusiastically. "Greg Sanders, CSI level one. Ryan's told me a whole bunch about you."

"Really?" Horatio questioned, shaking the offered hand politely. "Anything scandalous?"

Greg let out a mock sigh of disappointment. "I've tried to get some juicy stuff, but he won't budge. He says if I'm feeling particularly suicidal, I can try and steal your sunglasses, but I figured you seem like a nice enough guy. I'll save my tormenting resources for someone more deserving."

"Speaking of suicidal," Gil interrupted, "Where's my crossword puzzle?" He shot Greg a suspicious look. "Did you make another of those paper cranes again?"

Greg paused a moment before exchanging a look with Ryan. The blonde man spoke quickly. "You know what? I think I hear Hodges calling me. Something about fingernail scrapings."

Ryan looked thoughtful. "I think he's asking if you'd like to say any final words. Hey, if you start running now, I bet your boss won't catch you until… oh, I'd say the parking lot."

"Which is where I'll meet you in about five minutes," Greg replied quickly, giving his boss a nervous look. Although Ryan still didn't understand the entire paper crane issue, he had to admit that he found it amusing.

"Greg," Gil began, a hint of warning to his voice. "How many times have I told you that you can fold up any page you want _except_ the crossword puzzle?"

"Too many to count, sir."

"And?"

"And I suddenly remember seeing a paper crane on the top of the snack machine."

"Of course you did. Now run before I start making paper cranes out of your termination slip."

"He seems nice," observed Horatio as the other man scampered down the hallway, in search of an ornately folded crossword puzzle. Grissom gave Horatio and Ryan a polite nod before slowly following the Californian. "You two seem to get along well together," the red head finished, turning his attention back to Ryan.

Ryan felt a telltale blush beginning to rise from his neck. "We do. He's definitely…"

"Exuberant?"

"That's one word you could use," Ryan replied, fighting his natural tendency to look down at his shoes while he spoke.

"No one here seems shy about your chase today, either. I'm getting details from everyone in the lab."

"And they probably got the particulars from Greg. If it weren't for him, I would have lost the suspect."

"Then it's good you're working together. He's seems to admire you."

"Oh, really?" Ryan asked, clearly surprised by the observation. "He's a level one, just like me. I can't say I have a lot to teach him about the field."

"I wasn't talking about your jobs, Ryan," Horatio replied, blue eyes meeting brown. "You two just be careful."

Ryan stood as still as stone, his heart hitting the floor. How did Horatio know? They were being as discreet as possible! Eric and Calleigh certainly wouldn't have spilled their secret to anyone. Still, he met Horatio's eyes, unwavering. He had the distinct feeling that if Greg ever discovered the other people knew about their relationship, he wouldn't shrink away. He'd give them a big grin and a cheeky remark. He'd confirm it right off the bat. In other words, he would be _proud._ Ryan took a deep breath. He certainly wasn't going to abuse this relationship by trying to deny its existence; besides, Horatio would never break confidence. Their secret was safe.

"How did you-?"

Horatio gave him a smile before following what sounded to be a desperate struggle for a crossword-paper crane down the hallway. It became apparent that Horatio wasn't going to tell him verbally, but Ryan had the distinct feeling that anyone who wasn't blind could see what was happening between him and Greg.

…

Ryan found Greg leaning against his car, the Las Vegas sun beginning to peak over the horizon, coloring the sky with orange and pink. Ryan could hear the daily bustle of the city sounding off; a business man's sedan, the jingle of keys, horns honking, voices emerging to become part of the morning. They were all waking and there was a collective need for caffeine throughout the Western Hemisphere. However, as most of the city woke, Ryan and the rest of the graveyard shift were feeling the pull of a hard night's work. They were fully prepared to turn in.

Greg was looking out to the street, observing the morning rush. The orange light of the sun made him illuminate somehow, washing him with a glow that forced him to stand out among the gray pavement and every day scenery. Ryan stopped ten feet away, Greg unaware of his presence. Ryan wanted to take the moment and admire the man he was falling dangerously in love with. Greg was so beautiful, so bright: what made him want to choose Ryan over so many worthier candidates?

Greg continued to look out onto the city before feeling the watchful eyes of another. He turned and smiled at his observer.

"Hey handsome," he said as Ryan walked over, having guiltily been caught. "Ready to go?"

Ryan sighed. As tempting as it was to simply jump into Greg's car and drive off into the sunrise, he desperately needed to get some of his own clothes. He had narrowly avoided doom when David noticed he had been wearing Greg's shirt, but he wasn't sure how someone else might respond if they caught wind of their relationship. "Actually, I need to get some stuff from my hotel room. I'll meet you at your place in half an hour?"

Greg let out a dramatic groan while he slowly wrapped his arms around Ryan's waist, as if considering Ryan's half-an-hour deal. "I think I can manage to wait that long, but it's going to be difficult on me. And you'd better not be a minute late either," he warned, taking the sting out of his words by bending and catching a kiss.

"I'll get there as soon as I can," he promised. "We'll even try to cook."

"Cook?"

"Yeah, you know food and fire and pans? It's all part of it."

"I'm sure someone, somewhere, thinks you're hilarious."

Ryan grinned as he gently pried Greg's hands away from him, taking an admittedly unconscious but swift look around to see if anyone was watching.

"Closeted?"

Ryan turned back at Greg's frank question, slightly alarmed. "What?" he asked, immediately understanding the question and reluctant to answer it.

Greg gave him a smile, quickly shoving his hands in his pockets, giving Ryan the space he silently wanted. "No public displays of affection, right?"

An emotion that could only be known as guilt welled up inside the Floridian. He certainly wasn't winning the gold medal for the "Most Sensitive Boyfriend of the Year" category. He gave Greg an apologetic look.

"No. Cal, Eric and Horatio know. It's just weird, I guess. You're my first…"

He stopped himself. What was Greg, exactly? A short-term boyfriend? A friend with benefits? Ryan hated that. _Friend with benefits._ When they kissed, there was always something more than just sex involved.

Greg seemed to be asking the same question. He looked up at Ryan uncertainly before giving him a crooked smile, traces of curiosity and slight confusion around his lips.

"I'm your first male partner, right?"

"Technically," the other man admitted, somewhat sheepishly.

"All right then. And don't sweat about the public affection thing. It's not a big deal."

Ryan sighed before giving Greg a quick kiss. "You're a lot more than just a first male partner," he whispered, unable to stop his hand from brushing Greg's cheek gently. "I'll see you in a little while, okay?"

Greg nodded. "You'd better or I'll be forced to hunt you down," he threatened (although the childish grin on his face took the seriousness right out of his words) before hopping in his car. He gave Ryan a silly wave through the window and drove off, leaving Ryan in the parking lot. With a somewhat inane smile on his face, Ryan quickly hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address to the hotel.

The drive was uneventful, giving him an unsettling amount of time to consider how crazy his life had become in a mere seven days. The case was beginning to gain a little momentum and his relationship with Greg was ideal so far. However, Ryan's natural tendency to peer deep into the future was starting to make itself known. When the case was closed, where would they go from there? How would they say goodbye? Would Greg give him a wave and then head on home, forgetting this ever happened? In the back of his mind, Ryan wondered what it would be like to live in the famous city of Las Vegas with the younger man on a more permanent basis. But would Greg want such a serious commitment? It seemed as if he would; he hadn't shown any signs that clashed with the notion. Still, there was no way Ryan could leave Miami. He couldn't abandon his uncle and friends. He silently watched as the cab raced by the bright scenery and towards the hotel.

He paid his fare and trudged up the steps. The idea of never seeing Greg again was having a serious effect on his psyche. He needed to get with the program. He could be unattached, couldn't he? He didn't have to put his heart into everything. There was no obligation here, no promises. Just because Greg was the most meaningful partner he could ever remember having, did that mean he was in love? Or was it just lust? Or was it the heat of the moment?

Ryan frowned as he punched his floor number in the elevator. A lot of people flew cross-country on business trips or vacations and had a meaningless fling while they were there; a shared hotel room with someone they met in a bar. Why couldn't he do the same? What made this so different? He was knowingly growing too attached, willingly falling into the inevitable snares of utter heartbreak. He could handle it if Greg could, right? Surely Greg couldn't silently be sharing these thoughts.

He felt his heart hit his stomach as he jammed his key card into his now-useless hotel room door lock.

"Oh my God, there's a complete stranger in my room," a voice said lightly, jarring Ryan from his reflections. He looked up to see Eric splayed across the couch, his nose having been stuck in a book, a terrible looking novel that appeared to have been recently purchased at the gift shop downstairs. "You remind me of someone I knew a long time ago. If memory serves, I think his name was Ryan Wolfe."

"Ha ha," Ryan retorted as he closed the door behind him. "I'm dropping by to get some clothes and soap and… well, everything," he finished, a small blush now gracing his face. It was pretty obvious that his residence would no longer be room 435.

"What, Greg doesn't have some shampoo you can borrow?"

"I figured we're skating thin ice when I wear his clothes, so smelling like him won't exactly help my case."

"Ah, the cautious CSI."

"When have you known me _not_ to be cautious?" Ryan asked as he wandered into the adjoining bedroom to begin searching for his belongings. Eric followed him and flopped onto the edge of a bed while Ryan started emptying the closet of his clothes and folding them neatly, storing them carefully in his suitcase.

"Point taken. I'm just glad you and Greg are so star-crossed that hotel rooms have become unnecessary. And by star-crossed I meant minus the poison and doomed ending."

"If that doesn't fill me with confidence, I don't know what does," Ryan replied, rolling his eyes at Eric's grin. "And anyway, I haven't seen you in a while. I wanted to come by see how low you've sunk without my constant presence."

"And here I thought you saved your bull for work hours only."

Ryan turned to the Cuban, a smart remark on the tip of his tongue, but decided to be the bigger of the two and overlook the beginnings of a wit battle. However, he couldn't stop his grin. The 'how low you've sunk' comment was rather ridiculous; in fact, it reminded him of something Greg would say. "What I'm trying to ask is how you're getting along with the case," he continued, turning back to his previous task of packing.

"We printed every surface of the club that we could possibly reach if that's what you want to know. Office, dressing room, around the stage. I'm sure whatever poor sap's in charge of the lab budget is having a cow."

"Oh, so you and Nick worked out whatever was going on between you two?"

Ryan went on with his job of folding, waiting patiently for the reply. When it finally came, however, it was a strained and somewhat transparent "Yeah, we're fine." At the tone of voice, the younger man turned to see Eric's eyes had become hard and his face troubled. The cheerful banter that had been flowing between them disappeared in favor of a tense silence.

"Eric, is everything okay?" he asked slowly, unable to interpret the look on Eric's face. The Cuban quickly tried to abate Ryan's concerns, but his smile was forced, as if he was trying to hide something from view. He nodded.

"Just stressed out with work. Like I said, tons of prints and all those club employees to deal with."

Ryan paused a moment before setting his belongings down on the closet shelf, his full attention now directed at Eric. His friend's excuse was nothing more than a way to change the subject, but Ryan wasn't buying it.

"Work? What parts of it?"

Eric shrugged nonchalantly. "Just the usual, but you'd better get going or Greg'll be calling soon."

"Eric, don't lie to me. What's going on?"

"Nothing, I swear."

"Eric-''

"Ryan, drop it," Eric snapped, his body rigid and his tone going cold. He rose from his seat and walked back to the television room, as if trying to escape the discussion altogether. "It's nothing for you to worry about, okay?"

"You said it was work. What happened?" Ryan asked, following his friend anxiously. Despite Eric's wishes, there was no way he was going to abandon the issue.

"Greg's going to be expecting you," Eric said, trying to gain as much leverage as he could. Ryan was persistent when he wanted to be, only because he was such a faithful friend, wanting to make sure those around him were happy. He knew when something needed to be addressed; the problem was that Eric didn't want to address anything. He didn't even want to _think_ about it.

"He'll call if he starts to worry," Ryan countered, rapidly gaining the upper hand. Eric knew there was no way he was going to win unless he was suddenly struck with a dose of great lying skills; Ryan was too determined and genuinely concerned.

Eric finally found his space back on the couch, his novel shoved under a spare pillow. Ryan took the space next to him, his mind now concentrating on one thing: the best friend he'd completely forgotten about. In between the case and his own clumsy war of emotions, he had totally overlooked Eric's situation. At the other man's doubtful silence, Ryan leaned forward. "I'm your best friend. Please tell me."

Eric unconsciously tapped his fingers on the armrest next to him. "It's stupid," he finally muttered, not looking Ryan's direction and training his eyes on the open window across the room instead.

"If it is, I'll be sure to tell you."

"Fine. But I swear to God, if you tell Cal, I'll hunt you down and string you from a cactus or something."

"And you'll have every right."

Eric sighed and closed his eyes. He had no choice but to speak. "Okay, here's the thing. I messed up."

"Messed up? What, the case? Did you contaminate evidence? Because I'm sure Horati-"

"It doesn't have anything to do with evidence," Eric interrupted, successfully soothing the bout of worry that was beginning to form over Ryan's head. "I messed up with Nick. I freaked out and now it's weird."

"Whoa, whoa," the younger man said, his eyes growing large. Sure, he had suspected that maybe Nick and Eric flirted a bit, but how far had they gone without Ryan knowing? "Details. Spill."

"Yesterday, after we were chased down, we…" At this moment, he paused, true embarrassment forbidding him to speak any further. "We- I mean, you've gotta understand that we were stressed and we nearly died, so-''

"As position of best friend, I don't judge, but I can't help you if you're vague about it."

"Wekissed."

"You _what_?" Ryan demanded, all thoughts now spinning a million miles an hour in his head. Even with Eric's rushed words, there was no mistaking "we" and "kissed".

"I mean, he kissed me, but the point is that it happened and-''

"Wait, so in the heat of the moment, he kissed you. Am I getting this right?"

Eric buried his head in his hands, a humiliated "Yeah" coming from him in response.

"And what, you didn't like it?"

"No, that's the problem."

"So you _did_ like it," Ryan said slowly, trying to clarify all the facts.

"Yeah, I did. Can we move on?"

"But you're a party guy, right? He seems more like a one-significant-other-at-a-time kind of guy."

"So you're saying I can't stick with one person?"

"No, I'm saying here's pretty serious." There was a pause before Ryan spoke again, his voice low. "Do you like him?"

"What's it matter? There's no way it would work. We're half way through the case anyway, or so I've been told. And long-distance never pans out."

"Is that going to stop you?"

"You're gung-ho about this, aren't you? Seeing Greg is making you lose all perspective."

"I have perspective," Ryan argued. "Normally, I would never do this, but Greg's different, just like Nick's different."

"So you're saying I should just hop into bed with him?" Eric asked, rolling his eyes. "You're dreaming."

"That's not what I meant at all," Ryan quickly replied, trying to fight away the flustered, embarrassed flush that was heating his skin. "Greg and I… it's a lot more than-''

"Trust me, I know. I'm sorry," Eric interrupted, giving him a small smile. "I like Nick. A lot. But what happened makes things difficult. I'm not as brave as you and Greg."

"You're the one who told me to go for it."

"I could tell you and Greg were really serious."

"Just like you and Nick. You're not the only one who can pick up on these things, you know," Ryan replied. "But that's beside the point. What did he say?"

It looked as if Eric would have rather been swimming in a pool of crushed glass than speaking about this. At Ryan's insisting silence, Eric sighed and, not meeting the other man's eyes, said, "He even admitted that he was attracted to me last night. And you know what I did? I bailed, Ryan. Totally left him there and now conversations between us are so awkward that Calleigh's picking up on it."

"There's only one remedy for that," Ryan answered, giving Eric a grin. "You have Nick's address. You should at least talk with him and work it out."

"Just show up on his porch unexpected and probably uninvited? You're delirious."

"I like to call it optimism."

"Most others call it insanity."

A silence finally fell between them. Two best friends, both hopelessly displaced and tangled up in webs that they couldn't seem to get out of. Frankly, Ryan didn't want to get untangled. Eric, on the other hand, was fighting for an exit.

"You should go," Ryan whispered. "And this is coming from a guy who never takes chances."

"You took a chance with Greg," Eric argued. Ryan smiled.

"Only because you told me it was worth it and it ended up that you were right. And now we're switching roles and I, who hastens to do anything particularly crazy, am telling you that you'll never know if you don't try."

"I'll never know if I don't try? You're just full of clichés, aren't you?"

"Love is blind. Love conquers all. Love means never having to say you're sorry. Lo-''

"Okay, you've made your point. Now get out of here. I'm sick of you already."

"I was just getting started," Ryan complained, a look of mock disappointment on his face. Eric rolled his eyes.

"Sure you were, lover boy. Now grab yourself a cab and hit the road before Greg starts calling."

"You should be so fortunate."

Eric laughed as Ryan grabbed the rest of his belongings and, abandoning his natural tendency to fold and place things in the correct order, stuffed them in his suitcase before making a break for the elevator.

…

An hour later found Greg and Ryan piled in Greg's bed amongst a kingdom of blankets and pillows, both physically and mentally drained from a long night of work and the extracurricular activities they partook in after hours. Greg's arms tightened around Ryan's waist as he sighed, pleasantly worn out.

Ryan closed his eyes, hoping he could burn this feeling of warmth and comfort into his memory. He knew, after too many hours of debating and arguing with his inner monologue, that there was no possible way this could ever be more than it was: a fleeting love story. However, he had refrained from mentioning his concerns with the man spooned next to him. He could at least enjoy the time he was given without demanding more, right?

In the midst of his thoughtful silence, Greg spoke. "I'm glad you're here," he whispered, his breath hot against Ryan's chest. The dark haired man closed his eyes again. Voice. Warm breath. Memorize this and move on. That was his plan of action when the case inevitably came to a close.

"Me too," Ryan replied, threading his fingers through Greg's.

"Having someone here, especially you," Greg began, his voice soft, "Somehow makes it easier."

"What do you mean?"

"Sometimes I have this dream," the he confessed, his words slow and uncertain. "I can't sleep when I wake up afterwards, but knowing you're here almost makes it painless."

"What kind of dream?" Ryan queried, now curious, his hand idly playing with Greg's blonde hair.

"An explosion," Greg answered. "But not my explosion in the lab. It's somewhere else, in a different place."

Ryan's heart nearly stopped beating. He took in a deep, shaky breath. He didn't want to ask if there was music in the background or yellow crime scene tape that was floating in an ash-heavy wind because that would sound utterly insane. His mouth, like so many times before, had a different plan.

"Is there music playing?"

Greg seemed to stop breathing as well and a moment hung suspended between them. Finally, after searching a minute for his response, he spoke, shifting in order to meet Ryan's eyes. "Yeah," he whispered, giving Ryan a puzzled look. "How did you know?"

Ryan didn't reply, merely hugged Greg closer to him. The question of how this relationship would work was put in the back seat to be blissfully forgotten for a few more precious days.

The fact was that something was brewing on the horizon; it was dark, menacing, the plot of a mad man.

And they were in the middle of it.

TBC.


	9. This Place Called Home

A/T: I know it's been ages since I've updated, but don't fear: I still love this story! It's my baby. –huggles- I'm sorry to say that this chapter is short compared to my others, but I promise that I'm working on it. Thanks for all your support!

To Onigami Nanashi: You're too funny! –laughs- _If it annoys you, just iono... ignore it or something. _Trust me, you aren't annoying at all and a writer can never have too many reviews. Plus, ask all the questions you want. I live to serve. :D

Disclaimer: Not yours, not mine. I make absolutely no money from this; I write because I love to do it!

Out With It  
Act 9: This Place Called Home

**My mind without you is dead and cold as the dark midnight river when the moon is down.  
-**Percy Bysshe Shelley to Mary Godwin, _1814  
_

A receptionist sat down at the welcome desk in the Las Vegas crime lab.

Well, "welcome desk" was nothing more than a courteous term; she was more of a guide for the dozens of people who came in hopelessly lost with no idea as to where they were supposed to go. But she'd been working there for quite a while and knew the lab like the back of her own hand, so she could direct them to the farthest reaches of the building without thinking twice. She was the directory and information specialist. She called security when people started a scene. On the days Greg didn't make the coffee, she would have to bear the brunt and make it herself. It wasn't the actual process of _making_ the coffee that she dreaded; instead, it was having to hear everyone complain when it was anything less than Greg's.

The evening had been the same as it had been for almost a year now, which was a pretty sweet deal when she considered the alternative. After part of the lab exploded, she had sworn off the desire for a more exciting life. The same computer, the same people, the same job; safe, everyday work was a blessing, really. It was secure and it was all she could possibly want.

She set down her cup of coffee. Luckily, Greg hadn't forgotten tonight. Her fingertips brushed against the computer keys as she entered the password for her account. She nodded cheerfully at the same guards, the same CSIs, the same detectives and made sure to keep away from hard subjects like the cases they were working; after all, she was the receptionist and usually offered coffee and a kind word.

The phone rang. She answered it, as was her duty. It was her job to be polite but to the point; she waited for the system to accept her password as the sun began to set beyond the glass doors of the lobby. The tile shined and the walls sparkled, but her foot restlessly tapped against the floor, because something didn't feel right.

The phone rang. She answered. The computer finally logged her in and she pulled up the appropriate databases for quick access.

The phone rang.

"Hello, this is the crime lab. How can I direct your call?"

Pause. Those passing by didn't notice her sudden stillness, the way her lips pursed together, her eyes cold. Everything was normal to everyone else outside the building because they dwelled within lives that were pretty standard, but the Las Vegas crime lab wasn't normal and it certainly didn't live by any standard that she could think of.

"Who is this?" she asked, but a resounding silence was the only answer she received. The caller had immediately hung up once they had finished their speech.

She hung up as well and waited for a moment, allowing for the line to reconnect. She grabbed the handset and dialed with trembling fingers. Her own life was typical most of the time and she was glad for that, but for the 364 days that she wasn't scared out of her skin, there was always that 1 day where she swore she would quit this job.

It only rang once before someone answered. "Grissom," said the voice on the other end and she let out of sigh of relief she never even realized she was holding. She didn't know the entomologist that well, but he always had an air of authority and knowing about him. She knew he was the man to report to.

"Mr. Grissom? This is Judy from the front desk." She took a shaky breath before speaking again, hoping her voice was steadier than it sounded. "Sir, I just received a call from a man claiming he's put bombs in the Las Vegas Airport."

In the background, she could hear shouting, cursing, absolute chaos and mayhem.

"Sir?" she asked, making sure the connection was clear, hoping Grissom's cell phone hadn't decided to frizz out. "What's going on out there?"

Instead of getting any sort of answer, she found herself on the end of a dead line for the second time in less than a minute. It was rude to simply disconnect; however, Grissom was never without a reason. Wherever they were, it sounded like they were in the midst of an emergency.

She hoped everyone was okay and somehow knew this would be one hell of a night.

…

Twenty minutes before Judy ever arrived to the front desk, eleven CSIs and one lab technician were preparing to leave for the Las Vegas Airport. "Preparing" was the key word here. The criminalists were usually right on time, if not early; however, due to several variables throughout the evening, they discovered that they were late and, quite frankly, they didn't like the feeling. Most of them had practically forgotten the meaning of the word (although Greg had been quick to cheekily inform them that 'late' was an adjective, synonymous with 'delayed'. He was going to continue with his explanation, but Sara had threatened him with yesterday's coffee, so he backed off.) considering the chewing out they'd receive if the Sheriff were to ever discover this somewhat embarrassing mistake.

However, Ryan was probably the worst when it came to the delicate art of being behind schedule.

He drummed his fingers against the top of the table as he watched his friends rush around, trying to gather both their wits and supplies. He knew he shouldn't be so impatient, but his internal, OCD-induced clock was ticking; it was a relentless, constant reminder that they were _late_. He couldn't help that he was itching to go, tardiness being an alien notion to him. He hoped he was hiding his impatience well enough; after all, he'd hate to be known as the stickler, although Greg could probably take one look at him and know exactly what was going through his mind. Then again, Greg had that uncanny ability. Ryan's nerves relaxed as he thought of his boyfriend and he took a deep breath before removing his hand from the table. Being late was a part of life. He could handle it.

Maybe.

"You guys ready to head off?" Gil called as he and Horatio stuck their heads through the doorway and watched their respective teams scramble about, collecting their materials and sparring for the last available cup of coffee.

Despite being amongst the general pandemonium that surrounded him, Gil Grissom was calm, even serene. Although this was his usual state of self, it was even more noticeable when compared to the somewhat frantic, stressed mood that the rest of the crew was in. How could Ryan blame them? He too felt the heavy burden and responsibility that came with trying to put another killer behind bars. If they couldn't find a piece of damning evidence from the airport, the case would fall apart and Christopher Jenkins would strut right out of his jail cell, laughing all the way to an attorney's office before slapping the crime lab with a lawsuit that Ecklie would faint at.

"Swing shift left there half an hour ago," Gil pointedly informed them, ignoring Catherine's cursing of the coffee machine. "We're late." Ryan inwardly cringed. He was all too aware of this fact and he fought the urge to continue drumming his fingers.

"Late?" Catherine echoed, seriously ticked off. "_I'll_ tell you what's late." She accusingly pointed to the coffee machine with a well-manicured finger. "If this thing could go any slower, it'd be brewing _backwards_."

"Are you insulting the coffee maker? Cath, that's a line you just don't cross. I mean, when has Darla ever let you down?" Greg asked, traces of genuine shock in his voice. Catherine shot him a look, one that was a mixture of both curiosity and irritation.

"Did you really name the coffee maker, Greg? Boost my faith in mankind and tell me you didn't."

"What, you don't like 'Darla'? I was told it was classy and yet feminine."

"How do you know whether an electronic appliance is male or female?"

"You just _know,_" Greg explained, grinning when Catherine rolled her eyes in incredulity. "She speaks to me. Darla and I have had many a deep discussion. Y'know, theology, philosophy, the meaning of life, whether the Yankees will-''

"I get it," Catherine interrupted, looking rather thankful when the coffee finally finished trickling into the mug. She quickly dumped in some creamer and sugar, stirring the contents until the liquid turned a lighter shade of brown, almost white.

"You want some coffee with that pound of sugar?" Warrick asked, casting a skeptical glance at the mug before bowing his head, trying to escape the wrathful glare Catherine shot him.

"Hey, I think we can all agree that sugar and caffeine are wonderful things when you're forced to spend another breathtaking night at the airport," she replied, taking another gulp of the cherished beverage and flipping her red hair back with an impatient hand. "And I'd like to see you even try and take this away from me."

"But what's at the airport that we could even need? Our prime suspect's her brother," Warrick observed as he speedily refilled his fingerprint powder. Ryan inwardly groaned as he watched the action; they were so behind schedule that the Sheriff was going to have their heads for trophies when they finally arrived to the scene.

"His DNA didn't match the fingernail scrapings under the victim's nails. She definitely fought back, but it wasn't Christopher she was fighting against," Gil calmly replied. Warrick grunted and shook his head, too teed off at the thought to even respond.

A cloud of disappointment hung over the team. It wasn't as if they weren't prepared to tackle whatever assignment was deemed necessary for the completion of the case; it was the fact that they couldn't seem to catch a break. A week had already been spent tracking down worthless security videos, deceased family members, and useless co-workers, trying to put the pieces together and fill in the blanks.

"Gil, I gotta say there's a billion prints in that place and you guys dusted anyway," Jim replied, unapologetically cynical. "What are you even looking for?"

The intelligent man cast a calm look over to the Captain. "The answer," he replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world and Ryan supposed, when put in vague terms, it was.

Jim rolled his eyes at the unclear, philosophical response he had come to expect from the entomologist. "Right," he muttered. "Why did I even bother asking?"

"I don't suppose the chaos theory applies here, does it?" Catherine inquired, giving Gil a raised brow. "Y'know, Ellie just had an urge to take a Florida vacation, hopped on a plane and found herself at the whims of chance?"

"No," Gil replied, the epitome of patience. "There's definitely preempted actions taking place and it lies somewhere in that airport."

Catherine looked as if she wanted to respond, but found herself interrupted by Nick's voice as he tore into the room, speaking over his shoulder.

"Yo Hodges, you ready?" The Texan asked, looking rather rushed as he grabbed his kit before turning, doubling back, and grabbing his glasses as well.

Gil looked up at the query. Ryan noticed a worried frown was now tugging at his lips and for once, he was losing the tranquility he was known for. "Is Hodges ready for what?" their boss asked, looking close to concerned.

"The field," Warrick replied, patting down his jeans and, upon realizing he was missing his keys, grabbed his jacket and began shuffling through the pockets.

"The _field_," Yelina questioned. "A DNA technician on the field?"

"Don't worry," Nick replied. "He's been trained in the ways of the Jedi. Plus, he's got an I.Q. higher than a monkey, y'know? He just documents. Saves time."

Sara smiled sweetly, flashing her gap tooth. "He's a monkey with a Masters in chemistry."

"That's cute," the technician replied, shooting the woman a cool look as he strode into the room, appearing much more relaxed than his Texan friend. "I suppose you earn a few extra bucks working as a comedian on the weekends?"

Ryan heard Sara reply; it was probably a barb, because he saw David put his hand on his hip and glare at the shorter woman. However, most of his concentration had been shifted to another man walking towards him. Greg was smiling, hands in his pockets, looking at Ryan with eyes filled with… Ryan didn't even want to think about it. Scientifically, how could eyes really portray emotion anyway? It was more of a romantic phrase that poets and dreamers liked to use, describing how their soul mate gazed at them with expressive eyes, betraying their inner feelings. It was ridiculous, not to mention impossible.

Still, when Greg sat down next to him, it was difficult to completely dismiss the theory. The way Greg was looking at him made Ryan feel like he was the only person in the room, in the _world_, and despite his scientific ramblings, he realized that the poets and dreamers might have stumbled upon something that was actually believable.

"I can hear you thinking from across the room," Greg whispered, lightly touching Ryan's twitching hand, his fingers trying to stay still and not edgily tap against the table.

Ryan sent the blonde a small, sheepish smile. "I know. I just-''

"Hate being late?"

"Exactly. But I'm working on it," he finished. "Besides, I should be used to it since I hang out with you all the time."

"Har har," Greg replied, grinning before leaning forward. "I'd have a stinging retort to that, but my desire to kiss you right now trumps just about everything else." His whispered words made Ryan feel as if he were melting. It was rare that Ryan would feel such an emotion as to forget his surroundings. If they were home –_Greg's apartment_, he reminded himself- then he would have let Greg do whatever he wanted to and, right then, in the middle of the crowded lab, he was tempted to let Greg do it anyway.

Greg smiled. "But I can wait."

"You don't have to," Ryan replied.

Greg smiled once more, but it was different. His eyes ghosted over every inch of Ryan's face and he moved forward. For a moment, Ryan was torn; he wanted Greg to kiss him, but the sensible side of him was telling him to lean back and create some space. He loved Greg, but they were at work and it could affect- well, everything, and… A moment later, Ryan realized Greg never had the intention of kissing him. Instead, he was simply trying to keep their conversation private by being close and keeping their voices hushed.

"I know when you're lying," the blonde confessed.

The dark haired man took a breath. "Good," he whispered back. "Because I don't."

"And I know you'd let me kiss you in front of the President if I wanted to, but you're still a horrible pretender."

"I'll get better at it."

"What, making out in front of the President?"

"Kissing you in a public place."

"You don't have to."

Ryan grinned and copied Greg's action by leaning forwards. "I know when you're lying," he murmured.

Ryan, despite the strenuous circumstances, felt surprisingly calm and together. Perhaps it was because Greg was leaning against him in a subtly-loving-but-not-too-obvious way, his skin warming the Floridian's body. He wanted to kiss Greg, speak to him like anyone would their significant other, but the rushed crime lab wasn't the place to do that. Still, Greg's breathing had him unwound and tranquil; this, of course, couldn't help but make Ryan curious as to his other best friend's circumstance. He felt the silent tension between Eric and Nick as the two men avoided each other's eyes; they could barely even stand in the same side of the room for too long without getting antsy and wandering away, hoping to ease the sparks between them. It didn't take long to figure out that Eric hadn't taken Ryan's advice on the matter, but he'd certainly lost some sleep over the days.

Usually, it was Eric who made the first move when he was attracted to someone. What was different about this? Ryan had always known that Eric was constantly searching for someone he could love on a more permanent basis, but all of his relationships seemed to fall through. The possibility that Nick was the person who could make him truly happy added a huge weight of difficulty to Eric's predictable plan. The distance between them, the possibility of it working… was it easier for Eric to go back to the beautiful women he dated in Miami? The simplicity of calling it off when he knew it wouldn't work? It couldn't be. Ryan knew the loneliness Eric felt; the only thing that comforted the Cuban were his friends and family. In the beginning, Calleigh had tried dragging he and Ryan out, attempting to get Eric to connect with someone. However, they quickly learned that this was the worst thing they could do for him. Clubs offered too much of what he didn't need.

It was a complete reverse; Ryan, who was the epitome of prudence, had fallen for Greg anyway. Eric, who was flirtatious and charming, would have (in any other instance) certainly struck up a more-than-professional relationship if offered. But Eric, despite his evident attraction, had distanced himself. He didn't want to get hurt because he felt too much for Nick. Ryan watched the Cuban from across the room. He was laughing with Brass but had a manner of unhappiness that he simply couldn't mask from Ryan.

Nick really had tried to get Eric to realize the possibilities the two of them had together, but Eric simply wouldn't allow it. Ryan couldn't blame the Texan; how much rejection could a man take before they realized that it simply wasn't going to go anywhere? Wasn't there a point where you were forced to give up? To face reality?

Ryan's tumbled thoughts were cut short when he felt a soft touch on his elbow. He blinked; the team was filing out the door and Greg was trying to shake him from his stupor.

"And hey," Calleigh said, hoping to brighten the somber, hasty disposition of the group as they began to trudge out of the building and towards the parking lot. "Maybe the television crews haven't beaten us there yet."

Ryan silently winced.

Those were famous last words.

…

Despite Calleigh's hope, the camera crews and journalists had not only beaten them to the scene, but had set up camp as well. Large station vans littered the outside of the perimeter while sound men fiddled with their equipment and what looked to be harassed assistants patted down the noses of numerous reporters with powders, making sure they looked glamorous enough for television even as they clutched clipboards and spoke into their cell phones, juggling numerous calls all at once. In short, whatever privacy the CSIs had hoped they might receive was destroyed. They were, once more, the focus of the evening and would continue to be so until they finally closed the case.

Greg groaned and leaned his head back, resting it against the backseat dashboard of the patrol car as Jim slowly drove up to the scene, the mob making it difficult to go any faster than a mere crawl. "Aren't there any other crimes in Las Vegas these people can cover?" he asked, wrinkling his nose at the vultures waiting outside. Ryan grinned and squeezed his boyfriend's hand encouragingly while Jim glanced at the blonde through the rear view mirror, his lips forming a small smile at the exasperation in Greg's voice.

"A word of advice, gumshoe: they'll always be at the scene that needs isolation and they'll never cover the crimes that need attention. It's the way of the media."

"Amen to that, bother," Calleigh replied from the passenger's seat, turning towards the hard-boiled detective and holding up her right hand in an expecting manner. Jim simply cast her a funny look.

"It's a high five," she explained. Ryan laughed at the expression the usually sardonic man was wearing.

"I think he knows what a high five is, Cal," he supplied, amused at her antics. "I just don't think he wants to do it."

"Who doesn't want to do a high five?" she asked, faking hurt. "I was just trying to add some "oomph" to the moment."

"Fine," Jim said, sighing as he parked and shut off the ignition, ignoring the muffled voices of the crowd. "I'd hate to be the one responsible for destroying your "oomph" dream."

Calleigh grinned and held up her hand again. Jim rolled his eyes but silently agreed to her juvenile plan and they high-fived, Ryan and Greg laughing from their place in the back.

"Calliegh Duquesne, only you could convince Jim Brass do a high-five. You're my hero," Greg declared, unable to stop the embarrassingly girl-like giggles from escaping his lips.

The beautiful woman merely gave him a bright smile and silly wink before three more patrol cars pulled up behind them, the mob immediately catching sight of the vehicles and hollering out their questions. Jim sighed.

"Do I need to cover the rules?" he asked, giving the eager journalists a disdainful look from his place at the steering wheel.

"Don't talk to them, don't answer questions, and don't even look in their direction," Ryan recited.

"Good. Ready to make a break for it?"

"I was born ready, Jimmy," Greg replied, clutching his door handle. After a pause, the captain gave a short nod, signaling for them to exit the automobile and get under the crime scene tape as fast as they could manage. It was a race, really, because once those four emerged, the rest of the team did as well, Horatio and Gil shouldering their way through, Yelina between them. David, Nick, and Warrick bolted from the third car while Eric, Sara, and Catherine dashed out of the fourth. The tape was supposed to act as a force field; once you got under there, you were away from the prying eyes of the horde and able to do your job with minimal ruckus. This was just in theory, of course. It usually took a few armed officers and a well-put threat to make sure the plan actually worked.

As predicted, the moment Ryan's feet touched the ground was when the blizzard of voices began. "Sir, when do you expect to close this case?" "Sir, can you offer us any information on the case so far?" "Sir, what does Christopher Jenkins have to do with any of this?" It seemed like an entire chorus of 'sirs' were surrounding him; he grabbed Greg's arm and they made tracks towards the tape, narrowly avoiding the bulky, dangling microphone of a particularly persistent news crew. They hurriedly ducked under the yellow strip, thankful for the room to breathe.

"I'm totally used to this kind of behavior from people," Greg jokingly divulged, shooting Ryan a playful grin. "Random strangers see me and they can't help but freak out. You have a lot of competition, you know. The ladies love my air drum solos."

"From what David tells me, your musician skills are crappy with a side of average," Ryan replied, grinning at his boyfriend's lighthearted look of offense.

"How dare he! He's just jealous of my romantic entanglements while he sits at home, brooding."

"He's a good brooder," Ryan admitted.

"The best. No one compares."

Ryan caught sight of their group, assembling together about thirty yards away from the airport itself, allowing them more than enough space to work.

"You guys get through the stampede?" Sara asked, casting a glance towards the two approaching men.

"It was difficult," Greg cheekily replied. "Everyone kept asking for my autograph. This really hot chick wouldn't stop pestering me for my phone number, but I was purely professional about it."

"I'm sure Ryan finds that very reassuring," Sara replied. Ryan felt his face heat a few degrees, but didn't try to cover up the fact that Greg wasn't allowed to take phone numbers from beautiful women or gorgeous men anymore.

"I was able to resist," Greg informed her, sending a mischievous wink Ryan's way. "I got a better offer from someone else." David rolled his eyes and made a gagging noise; Greg stuck out his tongue in response and Calleigh snorted with laughter at the entire exchange. If they were going to be stuck here all night, they were going to make the best of it and Calleigh's laughter was always an uplifting sound to hear.

Sara said something –probably sarcastic, because Calleigh gave her a quirky little smile- but Ryan wasn't paying attention. He had caught sight of something behind her; there was a movement and some telltale reporter equipment. He took a few steps forwards, trying to make sure he was seeing what he really thought he was seeing. Reassured that his eyes weren't playing games with his mind, he let out a little groan. The yellow police tape obviously needed to be infused with a twelve foot steel gate; that, or officers needed to cover every inch of the perimeter 24/7, 365.

A tall, dark haired journalist was ducking under the crime scene tape, ushering for his crew to follow him. What was this guy thinking? Every reporter who wanted to keep their job knew they were to _never_ cross the tape under any circumstance whatsoever. Ryan took a quick look around, knowing perfectly well that Horatio and Grissom were dealing with other matters that were probably colossally more important than that of a reporting vigilante. However, no one seemed to be making a commotion over it. Quite the opposite; no one seemed to have even noticed. Ryan paused a moment, several scenarios playing through his head; there were always options, but there was only one correct choice when it came down to the line. He sighed and turned to his four co-workers.

"I'll be right back," he promised. They glanced up from their conversation and gave him a curious look. Ryan pointed towards the offending news gang's direction, explaining himself without words.

"They've got guts," observed Greg, raising his eyebrows as he watched the camera crew follow after. "All of Las Vegas knows you don't mess with Grissom's scenes."

"Maybe he's new," Ryan replied.

"Or an idiot," responded David. "And in my experience, it's always been the latter."

"You would know a lot about that, wouldn't you?" Sara quipped.

Ryan laughed a little before he held up his index finger, indicating he'd only be gone a minute and then turned and jogged towards the reporter and his squad. He took a deep breath.

"Excuse me, sir?" he called, quickly approaching them. "I'm sorry, but you can't cross the tape."

The reporter merely shot him a disinterested look. "Whatever. I need this story." The man made a motion for his camera crew to follow him, obviously ignoring Ryan's remark.

Ryan felt an embarrassed flush rise to his face; he'd never been so rudely blown off. "Sir," he began once more, this time with more authority to his voice, "Listen to me. You can't cross this line, so I'm going to have to ask you to move back."

The reporter seemed bored, as if Ryan was some sort of annoying mosquito buzzing in his ear. "Kid, what level are you? I've been dealing with scenes for years. If the big guys don't tell you to back off, it's fair game."

Ryan's jaw clenched and he gave the man a level look. This guy was really starting to piss him off; who did he think he was by acting like that? An active crime scene was just that: active. You didn't mess with it unless you wanted contaminated evidence and a tossed case. "I'm an investigator on this scene, got it? _I'm _telling you to back off. We'll tell you when it's open to the news."

"Oh yeah? What are you going to do about it?"

Their voices were rapidly escalating, grabbing the attention of the surrounding crowd. Ryan took a self-conscious look around; he didn't want to start anything, but he couldn't let the reporter through. He noticed David shooting him a concerned look and knew the lab tech would never have had this problem in the first place. One of his patented sharp remarks would have sent anyone else running in the opposite direction with their tail between their legs, but Ryan couldn't seem to make the man blink.

"I'll have you charged with destroying evidence," Ryan hissed quietly. "Now please get outside the perimeter before I have an officer escort you."

"What happened to freedom of the press? Besides, you aren't making any progress on this case anyway. You've had this airport on lock-down for a friggin' week. It's our right to know."

Ryan was all for the constitutional rights and he certainly believed in freedom of the press, but the reporter was out of line and Ryan's blood was slowly beginning to boil. The man made a move forward and Ryan stuck out his arm, blocking his path.

"I'm two seconds away from arresting you myself."

"Is that a threat from an officer? Lay a finger on me and I'll charge you with assault."

It was the final straw.

"You listen to me, got it?" Ryan furiously began, no longer caring who was within earshot. "This is an active scene and if you step one more _inch _and screw this case over, we'll charge you with everything we can get away with, including accessory after the fact. Now you had better get back under the tape or I'll make goddamn sure you won't get another anchoring job in the state of Nevada. Am I clear?"

The reporter was silent and gave Ryan a cold look. It was apparent he didn't want to back down and lose the battle, but the future of his career was hanging precariously in the balance. He muttered a string of curses before finally going back under the tape, his cameramen wisely following suit. Ryan took another deep breath, keeping his cool demeanor until he turned and walked towards his group, all of who were looking appropriately stunned.

David gave a small whistle. "I've taught you well. Congratulations on scaring a man half to death."

Ryan felt himself smile a little until he met Greg's eyes. The other man leaned forward and David quickly looked away, pretending to immerse himself in something incredibly simple.

"I didn't know you could be like that," he whispered, his hot breath tickling Ryan's ear. "It was kind of hot."

"Greg,'' the darker haired man began, giving him an embarrassed look. "I don't think this is the appropriate place to-''

Greg cut him off with a sly grin and wink before turning with his camera and hurrying towards Nick and Catherine. Ryan sighed, wishing he could be exasperated, but the truth of the matter was that he wasn't even slightly annoyed with the younger man.

David could only shoot him an arched eyebrow and shake his head, gathering his supplies.

"What?" Ryan asked, the beginnings of embarrassment flushing his pale face.

"You two are going to make me sick. Too much lovey-dovey crap and I'll lose my breakfast."

"Why David, it's almost as if you're our friend."

The two men walked towards the cluster of investigators, Ryan watching as Greg fiddled with the inside of one of the Tahoes. He was going to ask Sara or Catherine what in the world the young man was doing, but he knew he'd find out soon enough. Greg was always full of surprises, constantly changing and altering his day with jokes, music, and questions in which he would be quick to find the answer. He wanted to know things, to be the smartest person in the room and, without even trying, he usually was. Ryan waited a moment before the sound of music burst out of the speakers. Why had he even questioned what Greg was doing? Of course it revolved around music somehow; he paused a moment, listening to David mutter under his breath while trying to figure out what was playing. He grinned, immediately recognizing their CD. It had a mix of Greg's favorite rock songs, The Beach Boys, and some swing music that always made everyone want to dance. Greg jumped out of the truck and practically waltzed over to them.

"Are you sure you're allowed to do that?" David asked, shooting an irked look towards the younger man.

"Sure," Greg replied. "I do it all the time. Besides, Gris actually asked me to. I don't think even _he_ can stand another quiet night." He casually stuck his hands inside his pockets before frowning a little and looking down, digging his hands deeper. When he didn't find what he was looking for, he began with his jacket and vest.

"Did you lose something?" Ryan asked, giving him a concerned frown. It wasn't like Greg was disorganized –okay, so it was- but he was still professional and tried not to appear incompetent on the job.

"My film," Greg replied, furrowing his eyebrow as he stooped down to flip open his field kit. "Wonder where it walked off to?"

"Call me crazy, but I don't think film canisters can just grow legs and make a break for it," David replied. The blonde stuck his tongue out and David scoffed, muttering something about childishness.

"Want me to help you look for it? I have some extra anyway," Ryan offered. Greg shot him a sweet smile but shook his head.

"No, you guys go on. I'm sure it's in the patrol car."

"Okay, but if you don't find any, I really do have some spare rolls."

"Ryan, I believe you. As a matter of fact, how can I _not_ believe you? You're the man who carries around entire packages of pens."

"Hey, you never know when one's going to run out."

"I think we've had this conversation before. Tell them I'll be right there," Greg replied. He watched as Ryan turned and walked with Calleigh, Warrick, and Nick into the airport, the rest of them soon to follow. Yelina was fighting with another camera man while Horatio and Gil tried their best to answer as many questions as they could before inevitably giving up and completely ignoring the constant voices of the media. Sara and Catherine were securing the perimeter, making sure that absolutely no one else could cross the tape, taking a lesson from Ryan and getting no-nonsense with those who felt they had the right to break the rules. Greg allowed himself a small smile before turning back to David.

"You had better give me my supplies," the blonde threatened, crossing his arms and arching his eyebrow, his back to the airport.

"Sanders, as amusing as it is to watch you get upset with me, I don't have your film."

"Are you telling me I forgot one of the most important provisions in a CSI's field kit?"

"No, I'm telling you I don't have it. Besides, I can't believe you put it in your pocket anyway."

"I was in a hurry," Greg defended. "And anyway, what am I supposed to do now?"

"Steal Nick's. You do it all the time."

"Wait, how do you know that?"

"We work with glass walls, Sanders. When you go through someone's kit, people can see. Besides, I'm sure Ryan has ten extra canisters hidden away."

"Yeah, yeah. I just wanted to show him I was responsible."

"Why would you want to lie to him like that?"

"Shut up, Mr. He Who Is Single.''

"Making fun of my marital status. That's a low blow, Sanders."

"You just make it so eas-''

Greg's teasing words were cut off by a sudden and violent Earth-shattering boom.

It was a foreign sound that was not, by any stretch of the imagination, supposed to be an element of their evening. Greg knew what it was; he recognized the hums and echoes. The way the glass shattered, like uneven and sharp snowflakes, deceptively beautiful and painfully fatal. He didn't need to smell the smoke or feel the heat to know what had just happened behind him.

At first, his body turned to concrete and all he could do was numbly stare into David's eyes, the technician's own blue orbs fixed upon the sight thirty yards away. His expression was indescribable; there was worry, panic, and stunned disbelief all rolled into one. Greg, the beginnings of sickness attacking his stomach, slowly turned at the commotion. His body had morphed from concrete into a ball of spastic nerves, his mind running a million miles an hour and his breathing coming out in swift, fearful bursts.

In front of them, the Las Vegas Airport was burning, huge billows of smoke rising into the sky, land marking the moment Greg's heart officially stopped. He was frozen, struck by a horror that spread within his entire being, making it so he was two seconds away from emptying his stomach contents. Fire. Explosion. Smoke. There was only one thing he could truly grasp despite the sudden severity of his surroundings; where there had been a bored lull of officers there was now a sudden panic. Where there had been basic chatter among the camera men, there was now loud shouting and orders being barked from the reporters.

But more than anything, where there had been four CSIs standing right beside him not two minutes ago, there were now four CSIs trapped inside the building.

Greg took a step forward, his mind still trying to catch up with the veracity of the situation. He dropped his kit and gloves but didn't hear them hit the pavement. All around them was a frantic rush and he seemed to be in slow motion; his own actions were robotic, unable to comprehend the circumstances and only managing to grasp the fact that his best friends and lover could be dead. He had to get in there. He had to help Ryan and Nick and-

"Sanders."

The voice brought him only partially back to reality. David had spoken.

"Hodges," he began, his voice sounding lost, as if he wasn't sure whether or not he was dreaming. When had his voice gotten so high? When had he suddenly begun sobbing uncontrollably?

"Sanders, listen to me," David began, his tone stern. "You can't go in there."

Behind the lab technician, camera crews were catching the action on film while Greg was attempting to grasp the meaning of the phrase "can't go in there." Who was David to stop him? Who was _anyone_ to stop him? Staying safe and away from the blast area wasn't an option; he had to get inside. He made another motion to go forward and David's arm snapped out, his right hand clutching Greg's shoulder.

"Sanders, don't even think about it!"

"I have to! I have to help them! Why the hell aren't you trying to help me?"

Greg was screaming by then, sobbing, wishing he had been in there as well, wishing he could somehow save it all, rewind to the moment before the four CSIs had left David and Greg and gone inside. He wanted to return to when there was no fire, where they were all still alive and well.

"Listen to me, Greg. The paramedics and firemen are coming and they'll get them out." Greg heard the un-reassuring words as he struggled to free himself out of David's vice grip. In his mind, he knew the other man was right; Greg could only make it worse or hurt himself. It was probably even illegal in some shape, way, or form to actually go inside, but in his mind, this didn't matter. He needed to be close to them.

"Let me go! God damnit, Hodges, you'd better let me get in there!" He didn't recognize his own hysterical screech even as he bellowed as loudly as he could.

"Greg, would you just listen to me? You _can't_. If it collapses and you're inside…" David grappled for the words and Greg was suddenly hit with the fact that David Hodges was human- that he cared. In the back of his mind, Greg idly told himself to make sure and tell Ryan about how upset the technician actually was.

_"You won't believe how worried he was. He was almost as bad as me." _

"It's against procedure," David finally managed, finding his words. "Grissom would have your head. I'm sure- I'm sure they're fine."

"Fuck procedure! A bomb just exploded and they're fucking _trapped!_" Greg felt another surge of wild energy attack him and he began hitting David was his fists, fueled by only one truth: Ryan and Calleigh and Nick and Warrick were in that burning building and he wasn't with them, couldn't help in the least.

But David didn't let go. The harder Greg punched, the tighter David seemed to hold him, aware that if he were to release the other man, Greg would willingly head towards his own death without a single thought. No one would catch him then. No one would even notice he was missing until the flames were put out and his charred body was found in the wreckage.

"_DAVID!_" he screamed, protesting his confinement. "_Please_ let me go! Please- I have to get in there! What if he's- he's caught under a wall or something? What if he's burning? God, please just let me go! I swear I'll be fine!"

David was suddenly thankful for his supposedly uncaring heart. He was just as worried for his co-workers and friends as Greg was, but there was no way he was going to allow the young man's emotional outburst to change his mind. His scientific, apathetic mentality recognized that there were so many possibilities and variables linked to their current situation, but only one certainty seemed to shine through: Ryan would never want Greg to come chasing after him, especially if it was in a dangerous condition. The technician also understood that if Ryan were to ever find out David had permitted Greg to try and save him, there would be hell to pay. David's sudden mantra was _They're safe. They can take care of themselves. _He watched the flames engulf the walls and it was all he could do to not agree to Greg's plan, to blindly attempt a suicidal rescue.

"Please let me go," Greg whispered, running out of energy and breaking into another bout of relentless sobs. David's body hurt where Greg had hit him with more force than he ever imagined the younger man had, but Greg was unmoving and boneless, crying on his shoulder and begging with words David didn't even understand. He was breaking down. And the other man, inexperienced in the subtle art of comfort, did all he could to soothe the Level 1 CSI.

The sirens pierced the air as the fire raged on and Greg could hear Gil's cell phone ring even over the music of his CD.

_Is it like a fairy tale? True love and fighting off dragons? _

The dragon had breathed its fire.

TBC.


	10. Every Other Route

A/T: I just finished watching the season premiere of _CSI_. What'd you guys think? I _love_ that Wallace Langham is a permanent cast member and his thing about iron had me in stitches. And Greg's first "taste" of decomp? Gourmet! -laughs-

Also, thanks for all your wonderful reviews. I had a surprising amount of people ask, "What took you so long?" Frankly, my last couple of chapters generated so few reviews that I didn't think anyone was really reading this story, so I put it on the back burner in favor of some fics that seemed to meet a more enthused audience. I'm sorry I thought this way, because chapter 9 seemed to bring in more comments than I could hope for. (It's not that I refuse to write because I don't think I'll get reviews… I just want to make sure I'm spending my time on something that people will read. Dig?) I hope you enjoy how this moves along; I'm so horrid at writing murder cases! -is embarrassed- There are _so_ many technicalities that I didn't think of beforehand, but as a college student with a limited amount of time in which to work, I'm still kinda proud of this. It's a labor of love, at least.

Once again, you have my apologies for this short chapter. Sometimes, you just have to cut off at a certain point, but I hope you like it anyway.

Disclaimer: Heavens, no!

Out With It  
Chapter 10: Every Other Route

**To-day is a new sunrise for me; everything lives, everything is animated, everything seems to speak to me of my passion, everything invites me to cherish it.  
**Ninon de L'Enclos to Marquis de Sevigny, _late 1600's_

Ryan could vaguely hear the voice of Nick Stokes calling his name through the ash and flames, clear desperation altering his usual calm, assured self. What… what had just happened? Ryan's eyelids slowly fluttered open and he found himself looking up at the ceiling of the airport, trying to blink and clear his dry eyes of the smoke that was surrounding him, billowing like the black, chiffon dress Calleigh once wore. He heard Nick call out to him again, but the ringing in his ears was distorting the words and he was in too much shock to really understand what was going on anyway.

He was lying on his back, having rolled over from his right side, trying to get his startled mind moving. One glance around told him that a bomb had just gone off in their primary crime scene and said scene was burning down at a speedy rate. This was all familiar somehow; where had this happened before? He licked his lips and blinked again, the temperature slowly rising. His untimely bout of déjà-vu didn't matter; all that mattered was that he and… who else was there? Calleigh? Nick? Warrick! Warrick was the one he had forgotten; then again, his memory wasn't exactly serving him at the moment. His body was rigid and he would have preferred to simply close his eyes and sleep, overtaken by a sudden spell of drowsiness, but the flames were relentlessly consuming the walls and ceiling. It was move or die.

He blinked once more before slowly moving his legs and arms, assessing to see if anything was broken or if he had sustained any burns. His entire body seemed to pulse with a dull ache, but he felt no actual pain, merely the ringing in his ears and the taste of ash on his arid tongue.

"Ryan!"

Nick's voiced carried through the disaster area. Ryan raised his right hand and covered his nose and mouth, the smoke so thick that he could barely speak. His mouth was parched and his vision was blurry, but he shakily clambered onto his hands and knees anyway, ignoring the dizzying head rush it gave him. God, he was just so tired and disoriented. He was shaking and his body was betraying him, making his elbows weak so that he collapsed and was forced to use every bit of strength he possessed to push himself back up again. He knew he had to get with the program and his thoughts immediately returned to the other three. Nick was obviously okay, but Warrick and Calleigh… His heart hit his stomach at the thought of Calleigh getting the smallest scratch, the tiniest bruise. Where were they? And his evidence- where was his evidence? He couldn't leave without it.

He sent a hazy prayer up to the heavens in hopes that Calleigh and Warrick had also escaped harm's way before he blindly began groping the floor around him, unable to really shake off his shocked stupor. He was looking for a plastic bag that held his one piece of proof: a camera phone. He hated himself; a bomb had just blown half of their crime scene to smithereens while his friends were in danger and all he could think about was finding his missing evidence.

They had been in the airport for no more than two minutes when Ryan discovered a camera phone that had been taped to the bottom of a row of chairs. He idly remembered Greg telling him about a case –something about Sherlock- where he had found a gun hanging inside the fireplace, completely invisible from any point in the room. The phone was a similar scenario, but while Greg had found Sherlock's gun with his skills and reasoning alone, Ryan had merely dropped some film canisters. He had been setting the film out for Greg (knowing that the other man had most certainly forgotten his own at the lab) when he had dropped a canister and it rolled underneath the seats. Ryan had bent to retrieve it and found himself staring at a black cell phone held to the bottom of a chair by masking tape. It was no act of investigative brilliance; it was sheer dumb luck no matter which way you looked at it. However, Ryan was never one to turn his nose at the possibility of an ironclad case, regardless of how the facts were found.

He had tried to turn the phone on, immediately suspicious –who taped a cell phone under a chair in an airport?- but the battery had been dead. That was the last thing he remembered before the entire building rocked and he was suddenly thrown down, waking in the midst of a deadly situation. He was still in a daze of sorts, as if he was in a dream and waiting to wake up in bed with Greg next to him. He slowly shook his head in an attempt to get his mind to recharge. What was he looking for again? The phone. He blindly stuck his hand out, crawling on the floor, trying to locate his lost bag. He had put it in an evidence sack, sealed it, initialed it- a sudden, jolting thought shook him from his trance. God, what if it was destroyed? What if Christopher really did get away with it? His bit his dry lip, desperately trying to remember what he had been doing before the bombs had gone off.

"Ryan! Where are you?"

Ryan heard Nick's voice again, his consciousness beginning to reacquaint itself with reality. He tried to take in a breath to respond, but ended up inhaling smoke instead, resulting in a hacking cough. This noise drew an ash-covered Nick in his direction; although his eyes watered at the ruthless smoke that enfolded them, Ryan could still make out the worried expression on Nick's face.

"RYAN!"

Ryan coughed again, frantically feeling around for the bag. Nick's large, looming figure quickly approached through the smoke and he knelt down, attempting to speak and barely able to do so.

"Are you okay?" Nick managed to gasp out, covering his own nose and mouth with his dust-coated palms.

Ryan nodded, neither looking at the man nor ceasing his search. He had to find it; after all, he couldn't let Horatio or Greg down. He couldn't let _Ellie_ down.

"This place is collapsing," Nick said, grabbing Ryan's veering wrist as it went back and forth across the floor, running over shards of glass and Ryan not caring. The smoke and sudden mountains of rubble didn't allow for much visual aid; he could rely on touch alone and if slicing his hand to pieces was one way to find something, then so be it. "We've gotta get out of here. Rick and Cal are upfront."

"The phone-''

Ryan was stopped short by an ominous snapping sound; both men froze in apprehension and fear as one of the ceiling's supporting beams came crashing down, colliding onto the ground about ten yards away from where they were crouching. The new danger –falling debris- presented itself in a menacing way and Nick quickly turned to Ryan, trying to communicate over the blaze.

"The roof's falling in! I don't care what it is you're looking for- we have to go!"

Ryan wanted nothing more than to join Calleigh and Warrick, but he was positive that the cursed phone was somewhere close by. He couldn't run off without it; not after so long and after so much work, not as their thin case against Christopher skated close to the line of 'circumstantial at best'.

"I have to get-''

"_Ryan!_" Nick protested as he grabbed the back of Ryan's shirt, forcefully yanking him in his direction. The younger man had no other choice but to follow, not strong enough or of sound enough mind to fight back. Another threatening cracking noise was heard; he knew as well as Nick did that another beam was rapidly breaking away from its place in the ceiling and the entire roof would soon follow suit.

Ryan's mind rashly tried to calculate all of the variables; he knew he had a mere second to discover the whereabouts of his evidence before Nick dragged him away. He desperately tried to consider his position before the bomb. The bag has been in his left hand; if the blast had forced him down and onto his right side, then it would have slid a few feet in which direction? He felt like he was in high school again, his mathematics professor droning on and on about capricious chances and the numbers that said chances involved. Only they weren't in a classroom groaning about some pop quiz; they were two seconds from dying with an entire caseload weighing down on their shoulders.

Ryan broke away from Nick's clutch and made one last, reckless reach around; he sent a plea, a wish to whatever deity was tuning in. _Don't tell me you drug me halfway across the United States to die in a fire without even retrieving the evidence I came for. Don't tell me I'm not ever going to see Greg again, either. You had better get us out aliv- _

There. _There! _His fingertips brushed a smooth, pliable object; it was the plastic evidence bag, having tried to conceal itself it the wake of Ryan's suddenly horrible vision. He lunged for it, feeling the warm plastic against his palm and fingers. He held onto it like a man possessed, swearing only rabid wolves could tear it away from him, and even then he'd fight any animal on the planet to keep it in his care. With his newly acquired treasure, he turned to Nick, the both of them abandoning their spot on the floor and bolting towards where Warrick and Calleigh were.

"Are they okay?" Ryan managed to ask, aware that Nick was going to give him a good screaming when they finally got out. But could he, in their current predicament, bring himself to care? Their first concern was escaping with their lives. Then he had to see Greg- he just had to _see_ him, and then Nick could yell to his heart's content. About Ryan risking his life for a phone, for staying longer than necessary, for an entire bucket of code violations he probably committed in the one minute he resisted Nick's pleas to get the hell out of dodge.

Nick merely led Ryan onwards and Ryan had the sinking feeling that one of them had not escaped unharmed. He was proven correct when they hurriedly approached the pair, Calleigh leaning over Warrick and tearing a strip of cloth from his shirt before placing it over his nose and mouth. The older man was still conscious but his teeth were gritted in pain as he clutched his left leg.

Ryan didn't need to ask; Calleigh looked up from her position next to a downed Warrick with both worry and determination on her blacked face. "Part of the wall snapped his leg!" she yelled, trying to be heard over the commotion that surrounded them. "We've got to get him out of here, but he can't walk on his own!"

"The rugs?" Nick immediately asked, hoping to find a means of transporting Warrick out as soon as possible. Their plans were dashed when she shook her head.

"They're all burning!" she replied, bending her head and trying to cough out the fire's dust from her lungs.

"A chair?"

"There aren't any!" she replied, covering her own nose and mouth, trying to inhale some clean air. The chairs were attached to walls or to each other in rows; it would be impossible to try and carry one, especially in their current dilemma.

"You guys get out, please," Warrick begged, tears of pain beginning to form in the corner of his dust-flecked eyes.

"Like hell!" Nick instantly replied, looking horrified at Warrick's request.

There was a charged pause, the four of them trying to find the means for a makeshift stretcher in the midst of a burning building. There were no rugs, chairs, or benches to get Warrick out on, but the option of leaving him in the blaze wasn't open for discussion and even if it was, Ryan wouldn't; he'd drag him along the floor first. They didn't have to speak the silent rule because it was already understood: they would never leave each other behind, no matter the disaster.

Ryan felt the temperature beginning to rise even faster than before and he was suddenly aware of the sweat that was beading on every part of his body, but his discomfort was the last thing on his mind. They had one mission: getting Warrick out of this hell. But what? _What_ could they use? Ryan's mind raced before his eyes, presenting portions of his memory as if it were on a videotape that someone was fast forwarding and rewinding at random. _If Ellie were here… if Greg were here… what would they say?_ The thought of either blonde sent his emotions spiraling. He had first seen Greg through a glass wall and he remembered opening the door, the action inadvertently filling the rest of the building with music and-

"A door!"

Ryan found himself shouting out the suggestion the millisecond the concept came to mind. Calleigh shot her head up and Nick let out a strangled "Yeah!" before the two men instantly began looking for a door that was still intact. They didn't have much time –two or three minutes at most- before the entire place would buckle on top of them. Once more, Ryan's conscious took him back to his mathematics instructor. If they knew where the bombs had been planted, then they could find the furthest point of the blast and thus find some doors that were still unbroken. It was all about numbers and probabilities.

Several frenzied seconds passed as they looked for a large piece of wall or door in which to transport Warrick to safety. The problem that was rapidly presenting itself was that they couldn't seem to find anything large or long enough to support his height and weight. Ryan looked further into the smoke, trying to find anything that would do the job. His panic was beginning to mount; they had to get Warrick out, no matter what. But where-?

In the corner of his eye, Ryan could have sworn his entire bank account that he saw Calleigh simply standing in a far off corner of the burning airport lobby. Why a corner? And why stand, unmoving, in the middle of a catastrophe? He saw the blonde hair immediately, but when he turned to call to her, to tell her to start moving before she was caught under falling debris, it wasn't Calleigh standing there. As a matter of fact, no one was occupying the corner at all. However, with his attention now focused on that one part of the room, he realized that the lobby led to a small office and while the office was in a state of irreparable disarray, it still had a closet.

A closet that had a door.

A door that was still in one piece.

"This one!" he yelled, turning to see Nick and Calleigh trying to knock out a large piece of wall. "I've found one!"

The two rushed forward and followed him into the destroyed office, Calleigh nearly in tears at the sight of it. The Texan quickly grabbed his pistol and shot the hinges, freeing it from the doorframe. With a strength Ryan didn't know she had, Calleigh hoisted the door up with Nick and sped over to the injured Warrick, their operation miraculously beginning to progress.

"Sit up," Nick ordered; Warrick complied and grunted with the effort. Nick frowned, but spoke again.

"Bite a bullet, 'cause this is gonna hurt like hell."

Calleigh and Ryan grabbed Warrick's arms while Nick took his good leg; in any of circumstance, they would have let him drag himself onto their makeshift stretcher and make it as comfortable as possible, but time wasn't on their side. They unapologetically yanked him onto the door as he gave out a choked cry of pain, his left leg twisted in a sickening, unnatural direction.

"He's on," Calleigh hastily confirmed, nodding her approval. Ryan took one side of the door while Nick took the other; Calleigh grabbed their kits and headed their train, rubble and wreckage now beginning to crumble and block their path. She glanced around before quickly grabbing an intact two-by-four, smashing it against things that blocked their way, destroying burning debris as she treaded her warpath, as brave and beautiful as Ryan had ever seen her. In the back of his mind, he wanted to try and remember to ask why in the world she had been standing that corner, but that particular question was on the bottom of his list. There were more important things going on, like the fact Warrick was safe, that Calleigh was making sure they were protected, and that Ryan and Nick would live to see the men they loved once again.

They were getting out of there, heading into the Las Vegas night.

Ryan couldn't help but count the seconds.

…

Greg wasn't sure how long he sobbed on David's shoulder; it felt like hours, but it couldn't have been more than three or four minutes at the very most. Beside him, Eric was unmoving and colder than stone, his face dark as he watched the fire consume the walls of the airport, his eyes betraying his true, heart wrenching fear. Grissom was hiding his panic under a cool exterior while Horatio was silently horrified; he had always been so protective of his team, making sure they were safe every step of the way. And now? Now, he didn't have control over the slightest thing. Next to him, Yelina was still.

Greg could barely see this through tear-blinded eyes; instead, his mind constantly repeated the same four names: Ryan. Nick. Warrick. Calleigh. It was all too much, too fast, too frantic. Within his mind flashed images of their faces, their expressions, the color of their eyes. Bits and pieces of their broken memory danced around in his head, making it nearly impossible for him to breathe, to think. David wasn't moving and Greg was glad, because he couldn't bear to look at the inferno that was devouring the structure. He could barely even support his weight or trust himself to stand; it felt like his knees were Jello, not nearly strong enough to keep him upright.

Nick and Warrick. They were his best friends, his supporters. Six years he had known them and they saw each other through everything: stalkers, explosions, gambling, being buried alive, and all of the bad relationships and difficult days in between.

Calleigh was like some sort of goddess; beautiful, bright, and one of a kind. She was the sort of woman who could have a serious conversation and then con Jim Brass into a high-five. Her laughter was contagious and her smile was like sunshine and it felt revoltingly poetic that she should perish in the glow of a fire.

Ryan. Even at the sound of his name, Greg felt his unprofessional sobs grow worse. Ryan, who he had known for a week. Ryan, who he had fallen in love with. Ryan, who was shy and funny and brilliant and talented and… and meant for him. Ryan, who he wasn't sure he could live without. Not without Nick and Warrick to support his loss.

But no one could do anything until the fire department arrived.

With his back to the fire and his arms around David's neck, all he could really see were the camera crews and the crime scene tape they were still forced to stay behind. In some twisted way, the vivid shade of yellow and the stark black words that read 'Crime Scene- Do Not Cross' reminded him of his boyfriend; wasn't it only five minutes ago that Ryan was standing next to that tape, forcing a reporter back and offering Greg film? Greg grimaced at the word 'reminded'; the only reason anyone would need to remember a person was because said person was gone. There was no proof that Ryan was gone or dead yet; he refused to believe it. Instead, Greg tried to numb his mind as he stared at the reporters who were covering the sudden calamity; most of the women's hair had fallen loose and the men looked disheveled. The blonde's tired eyes swept over the growing crowd; he wasn't looking for anything in particular and he had been too sick with anxiety to really notice the multitude of people that seemed to emerge from the sand. However, even in his current state, he couldn't help but become aware of something that didn't seem to blend into their situation at all: a smile.

It was a journalist; the same one Ryan had driven away. He was smiling. He was fucking smiling! Greg felt a wave of rage wash over him and he gripped David's shoulders, wondering what the lab's liability would be if he were to beat a man to death.

However, his fury melted into something lighter when he saw the journalist grab the attention of the woman next to him, pointing towards the airport, shouting in an attempt to make people understand what he was trying to say.

Greg couldn't discern the words, but he knew the expression of relief when he saw it. Inside Greg's heart rose an optimism he had never felt before; the force of it made him weak, the possibility so against the odds that he told himself was not to get his hopes up. However, the thankful applause and bellows of those witnessing the event behind him made his his heart beat a million times a second. He looked up at the man holding him; on David's face was a smile and, right next to him, Eric was blinking back his tears.

Greg turned to face the airport once more.

And out of the smoke emerged three figures.

Calleigh's hair was dark and flat, her once pristine white blouse now irreparably stained with ash. She carried four crime kits and was leading them out of hell, clutching a two-by-four and looking like an exhausted angel guiding soldiers away from battle. Beside her was Nick, sweat and dust making his skin appear darker, almost black. The Texan was clutching the short end of what appeared to be a door. The man lying on the door was Warrick, clearly in pain but grateful to be alive. Greg's eyes drank this all in, his panicked sobs morphing into tears of utter and absolute relief and thankfulness, because the other man helping Nick haul the patient was-

"RYAN!"

Greg's relieved shout was heard over any other noise on the property.

The three continued on; David allowed Greg to break away and the blonde took this opportunity to practically fly to the four CSIs. His first urge was to tackle Ryan and make sure this wasn't some hysteria-induced hallucination, but his worry for Warrick and his professionalism took hold of him as well. As long as Ryan was there, next to him, he could wait a good two minutes before wrestling the Floridian to the ground in sheer joy. He quickly grabbed hold of a long side of the door, taking some of the weight for Nick and Ryan but careful not to tip it over, and helped them to where the other six were anxiously waiting.

The paramedics quickly took over Warrick's situation, promptly getting him on a real stretcher although it was clear that Nick, Calleigh and Ryan weren't thrilled at giving him up, wanting to be with him every step of the way. But Catherine quickly quelled these concerns; she worried over the three of them before going to where Warrick was, clutching his hand and allowing her tears of relief to trickle down her face. They knew there was no chance she was going to let anything happen to him while they were away and they felt, for the first time, that they could leave his side. Horatio and Yelina took hold of Calleigh, Yelina mothering her like an old woman, going so far as to brush her hair and wipe off her face once the paramedics had made sure her hearing and eyes were in ideal condition.

But even in the center of all the disorder and chaos, Ryan and Greg couldn't manage to part from one another. Once Ryan had made sure that Warrick was safe, that Calleigh was resting, and that Nick was well, he turned to find Greg standing timidly before him, staring more at his feet than anything else. Ryan wasn't sure how he expected Greg to react to it all, but Greg was usually so vibrant and unapologetically expressive that if felt odd to see the blonde standing with his fingers curled around the cuffs of his jacket sleeves, as if trying to resist the natural urge to touch Ryan. Ryan shot him a quizzical look; they were standing about five feet away from each other and it was like Greg had shut down and transformed into a cold, stone statue, a shell of his natural self.

"Greg?" he asked, his voice carrying over to his boyfriend, similar to that of a small wind in the middle of a hurricane.

"Are you okay? Are you burned?" the blonde inquired, but his voice cracked and wavered, as if he were forcing himself to keep his words hushed. Ryan slowly nodded in response and felt his heart nearly crack in half when Greg quietly asked, "Can I hug you?"

Ryan nodded again, curious and worried about Greg's sudden shyness, his sensitivity to their surroundings. Greg slowly trudged up to him and awkwardly placed his arms around Ryan's waist.

"Are you okay?" Ryan whispered, Greg shivering at simply hearing his voice. The blonde sniffled, trying to put on a brave face and failing miserably.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Greg asked, his words muffled as he rested in the crook of Ryan's neck.

"I don't know," Ryan replied, rather uncertain. "You look a little frazzled."

"If you're implying that I'm hysterical, then you're right."

"Is it-''

"Because you were in there? Yes, it was. So were Nick and Warrick and Calleigh. And I…" He trailed off, his throat closing up and sobs threatening to break out once more. Ryan felt this shift and gently broke away from Greg's embrace, wanting to meet the blonde's eyes. Greg didn't fight the change in position, although he seemed almost ashamed that his emotions were roller-coasting every which way.

"Greg…"

"I know you have this public affection thing and that's fine, but God, I-I saw the explosion and Jesus Christ, I'd never been so scared and you're alive," Greg said, tears beginning to brim in his eyes and spill onto his cheeks. "When I heard the explosion, I thought you were- God, I thought you were dead but you're here and you're so beautiful and I'm trying to hide my concern for you because I know you want to be professional and I- I just don't want to embarrass you, but I was just going crazy."

Greg's skin was fair and white while Ryan's was damp and encrusted with the debris of the fire. But Ryan was crying as well, grinning and shaking his head at Greg's relieved rambling. The Floridian felt so selfish; Greg was silently breaking into pieces while trying to appear composed, all for the sake of Ryan's comfort.

"Public affection, huh?" Ryan managed to ask through his tears. Greg nodded quickly, unable to rip his eyes away from Ryan's face, unable to remove his grip from Ryan's arms. He had to know it was real, that he wasn't imagining this in his rattled mind.

"I just thought… God, the thought of you in there- I was going crazy and Hodges wouldn't let me-''

Ryan shook his head, wordlessly cutting Greg off. He had so graciously been given a second chance. Was he going to carelessly throw it away? And besides, he couldn't remember what he had been so frightened of anyway. He remembered flying into Las Vegas with Eric asleep on his shoulder, trying to keep his nerves from taking over his body. He had been so anxious to impress everyone, to prove he belonged with his team and that he could do his job that he never considered the weight of the sacrifices he made for his career. Greg was worth more than a paycheck or whatever superficial reputation he may have garnered in Nevada.

He found his fingertips brushing affectionately across Greg's tearstained cheeks, his ash caked fingernails stark against Greg's skin. Greg allowed his vexed prattle to trail off and they were both silent, the commotion around them seeming to fade away, allowing them to become the only two there.

He didn't have to think about, to consider the pros and cons and repercussions of his actions; he just _did_ it. He bent and captured Greg's lip in a kiss and Greg shyly reciprocated it, as if unsure whether it was what Ryan really wanted. At the insistence of Ryan's tongue, however, Greg's confidence began to return and he became a much more active participant in their battle, each ignoring the fact that seventeen different news crews had cameras rolling and they were capturing this particular moment on film. Not only that, but his entire team was about twenty yards away, watching and fretting and crumpling in relief.

They had the evidence. But more importantly, they had their lives.

They were going to get Christopher Jenkins for his crime.

Even as the paramedics drug Ryan away to make sure there was no ringing in his ears; even as Horatio came over and calmly congratulated him on retrieving their key evidence, Greg couldn't forget the moment he saw them emerge from the fiery building and the sheer gratitude and relief he felt when he saw Ryan's brown eyes and heard his voice. When he felt his lips and saw his smile.

When Ryan whispered, "I love you" in his ear.

(You will not destroy us.)

TBC.


	11. The Journey Forwards

A/T: Hey everyone! I'm so glad you're sticking with me on this one!

To Braeca: Wow. Your review meant to world to my ego! –laughs- It even kicked my muse off the couch and back to her desk (where she ought to have been the entire time!) _But hell, it's fanfic, it drives the plot, so in the scheme of things who gives a crap? _Ah, what lovely words. I've never written a case before and I'm not too hip to the latest regulations regarding bombs and so forth, but I figured that if there was a strong enough possibility of passengers being in danger, then I could hopefully get away with shutting down the entire airport. I'm so pleased you found the plot to be engaging and the characters likable; even better, your view on the tiny supernatural elements had me absolutely glowing. (And just between you and me, no hunting will be necessary.)

To Onigami Nanashi: Thank you for your wonderful support. You happen to be the little voice in the back of my head, encouraging/bribing/blackmailing me into writing the next chapter. Where would I be without you? So glad you're writing your own stuff too, because it's so good.

Disclaimer: I do not –and let me repeat: do _not_- own _CSI_. Le sigh.

Out With It  
Act 11: The Journey Forwards

**My door has not been opened once today, but what my heart palpitated. There were moments when I feared to hear your voice, and then I was disconsolate that it was not your voice. So many contradictions, so many contrary movements are true, and can be explained in three words: I love you.  
**-Julie de L'Espinasse to Comte Hippolyte de Guibert, _1774_

Excerpt from Ellie Jenkins's diary:

_December 24th, 2003_

_It's so hard to choose one over the other: my family or myself? Chris is my only family now, but I can't help but wonder what my parents would think if they were sill alive. Everyone at work says I should go for it- leave Chris and Las Vegas behind and start some place new, plant my roots in a city that might love me more than this one._

_Wouldn't that be something? A life of my own?_

_Maybe if Chris would stop hitting me, I wouldn't be so eager to steal away into my rocky future. My friend Mr. Kellsie says everything is connected and that maybe my future is part of something much bigger. Perhaps I'll meet a woman and we can be happy together. _

_But I can't help but feel that my life won't turn out the way it's supposed to. _

…

"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls," Greg began, taking a theatrical leap into the break room and thus startling those who inhabited it. "Prepare to be amazed and astounded!"

David Hodges rolled his eyes at the younger man's words before taking another sip of his beloved (and stolen, but Greg didn't need to know that) coffee. He glanced at Ryan; the younger man was currently staring at his boyfriend with traces of confusion on his face. David couldn't help himself when he wondered whether Ryan had truly adjusted to Greg's eccentricities or if he just happened to be very patient regarding Greg's personality.

"He always adds a prelude to whatever news he plans to blows us away with," David calmly explained, taking another sip of coffee. "You'll get used to it eventually."

"Or go insane trying," Sara helpfully added, finishing off the last of her sandwich and Coke. She tossed the remaining trash into the garbage can a few feet away, flashing a triumphant smile when she scored the basket. She turned back to the young CSI standing in the middle of the room; Sara never seemed to show much emotion, but she appeared amused at his silly antics. "So what's the latest? You look kind of eager to tell us something."

"Wait, don't tell me," David deadpanned. "You finally got some fashion sense and an intelligence higher than that of a rock. That _would_ be astounding."

"Oh, ha ha," Greg replied, sauntering over to their table and hiding something behind his back as he did so. "There's nothing really exciting. Unless, of course, you want to include the fact that our humble team made the…" He inserted a dramatic pause before whipping out the daily newspaper before them, laying it on the table with an animated grin. "Front page of the Las Vegas Sun!"

"Oh my goodness! Are you joking?" Calleigh asked, quickly snatching the paper to examine its contents before anyone could get a word in edgewise.

"I never joke about publicity," Greg solemnly replied. David, Sara, and Ryan scrambled up to get a glance over Calleigh's shoulder. Indeed, the nightmarish scene from the evening before was plastered all over the font page while big black headlines screamed 'terrorism', 'heroism', and everything in between. The picture was taken from the ground; a lucky snapshot that someone had caught from behind the tape. The photo showed Calleigh walking to the left, away from the wreckage. Ryan and Greg were in the center, arms wound around each other while Nick was with Warrick and Catherine, Eric with Horatio and Yelina, and David standing to the side, looking worn.

"Look at my hair," Calleigh groaned, laying her head on the table in resignation and handing the paper to whomever happened to grab it first. "Of _course_ the day we finally get some hype is the day we look like we did the Tango with a pack of wolverines."

"My hair looks amazing, as always," Greg cheekily replied. Calleigh looked up and gave the young man a dark glare, although her dark glares were questionable at best. Besides, she didn't really care what anyone thought of her hair or clothes; she wasn't vain or self-absorbed. She merely wanted a tiny bit of normalcy and she could occasionally find it in when dressing like a typical woman, one who wasn't forced to encounter death every day.

"You keep telling yourself that," she dryly retorted. "But until proved otherwise, I still think that's an alien life form on your head."

David took another glance to his left, where a suspiciously silent Ryan was taking in the photo with a pale complexion. "You look like you're about to show us what you had for breakfast," David muttered. Ryan was indeed looking nauseous as he absorbed the paper's front-page shot, not having spoken since Greg had announced his arrival. Ryan blinked and tried to articulate a few words; he even opened his mouth with every intention of saying something, _anything_.

But no words seemed to come.

How could he verbalize what he was feeling? His nervousness, his worry; there he and Greg were, their arms wrapped around each other… and all of Las Vegas knew about it. It was in the papers, on the news channels, and it just so happened to be some of the hottest gossip the lab ever had. As a matter of fact, he and Greg hadn't been able to do much of anything without being under the scrutinizing gaze of a random stranger.

He quickly glanced up, realizing that everyone's eyes were trained on him. "It's just…" he began, struggling for the appropriate response and wishing he didn't feel like one of Grissom's bugs, like some winged creature stuck under a microscope to be observed. "It's the front page and all. I guess I'm just surprised."

"Everyone in Las Vegas knows you're officially involved with Sanders," David stated, voicing Ryan's silent realization. "It's a little late to be having second thoughts."

"I'm not having second thoughts," Ryan quickly replied, absolutely adamant. There was no way he was _ever_ going back on Greg and he didn't care if the entire country knew about it. Hell, that picture might even be on the President's desk, but he honestly couldn't bring himself to care. Greg was everything to him and Ryan was glad he could show his boyfriend how much he truly believed in their relationship. "It's just that I've never really been 'out' before. It's so… sudden and wide scale."

"You're the poster boys for gay law enforcement everywhere. Should I ask for your autograph now or later?"

"Come on, Hodges," Sara chided. "Can't you make this simple for them? I know being nice goes against everything you are, but give them a break."

"You must have me confused with someone else," David replied, his voice dripping with faux sincerity. "Since when have I ever made anything easy on Sanders?"

"You've got a point there," Greg quipped, grinning wolfishly. "As a matter of fact, I bet the only thing easy in here is you."

David's eyes grew wide at the comment before he took his half-eaten cup of yogurt and threw it at the young CSI, the strawberry-flavored remnants splattering across Greg's chest. Greg let out an offended "Hey!" before ducking behind Ryan, using his boyfriend as a shield from whatever else David had in his arsenal.

"Get from behind him and take your demise like a man, Sanders," David ordered. "I don't want to have to coat him with food as well."

"You wouldn't!" Ryan protested, quickly forgetting the picture in favor of doing a mental roadmap of the city and trying to remember if he'd seen a dry-cleaners on any route he'd traveled so far.

"Depends on how badly Sanders deserves it. I wouldn't _want_ to, because I find you to be a somewhat decent human being."

"But nothing will stop you in your quest for vengeance. I understand that completely, but I just bought this shirt last month."

"You sound just like Sanders. You've either been spending too much time with him or you're a match made in heaven."

Ryan opened his mouth to reply, but was saved the agonizing threat of smelling like strawberry Yoplait by Catherine's entrance. They hadn't seen her approaching, even with the glass walls that surrounded them. Ryan rolled his eyes at himself; what sort of CSIs were they if they didn't even notice their boss coming? Once the fairly lighthearted group caught sight of her, however, they couldn't help but notice the dark smudges beneath her eyes and rumpled clothes replacing her usual sultry, natural beauty. Her worry for Warrick had been blindingly apparent throughout the evening and her shabby, exhausted appearance only reiterated it.

"Hey boss," David said, forfeiting his need for payback when he caught sight of her pathetic form.

"Hello Hodges," she greeted, not even bothering to look in David's direction. The technician rolled his eyes, but being brushed off was just another fact of his life. He caught Ryan's benevolent look and shrugged in silent response; what did David care? He was used to it anyway.

She seemed to be in no mood for pleasantries or small talk as she ambled towards the coffee maker and asked, "What've we got on the case so far?" The question offered anyone the chance to reply; rest assured, they would have loved to give her something new, a piece of evidence to lift the cloud hanging above her head, but there was absolutely nothing to report with. The only person who could really help was Greg, who quickly shot up from his crouched position and ushered her towards a seat, offering his coffee-making services.

"In a nutshell," Sara began, watching as her friend flopped onto one of the plastic chairs, "We have those two guys who chased down Nick and Eric in custody and Brass picked up Christopher last night. Our problem is that none of them are talking."

"An interview with Brass and they still won't crack," Catherine surmised, her expression miserable. Sara frowned at the red head's apparent fatigue but nodded in agreement.

"Maybe a few days behind bars will change their minds," she suggested, hoping to give Catherine the burst of optimism she so obviously needed.

"Maybe," the older woman replied, her voice void of the confidence she usually possessed. "We've got all of our suspects and none of them will confess. Warrick's in the hospital and Yelina's out her partner. The surveillance tapes are useless, Jacqui hasn't found a print match, and now our lab is all over the news."

The smell of fresh brewing coffee began to fill the room; Greg had made good time, aware of how badly Catherine needed the pick-me-up. Her list of downsides seemed endless, but Ryan couldn't blame her. She looked so drained; between the media and the strain of a difficult case, anyone would be at their wit's end. However, he had never seen her so… desolate.

"How's Warrick?" Calleigh asked, her concern genuine while hoping to give Catherine something to be grateful for. "Horatio told me he was doing fine, but I figured you would know first hand."

Catherine smiled at the blonde's words, his name brightening her spirits a notch. "He's fine. He hates being holed up in the hospital and wants to get back on the case pronto, even if it's just pushing paper. And Nick can't seem to leave, so I sent Eric up there to get him home."

"They'll both bounce back in no time," Calleigh replied, her tone one of absolute certainty. "He and Nick are like brothers."

"I know he will," Catherine murmured. "I'm just… I'm afraid that this case won't pan out."

"Of course it will," Sara interjected. "We have our main suspects in custody and the best CSIs on the job. There's no way we won't get the guy who did this."

"We know Christopher rigged up the airport," Calleigh supplied, as if trying to catalog the positive aspects of their case. "And he knows who killed his sister. We'll get the truth."

"Yeah. Today's just a bad day, but tomorrow will be better," Greg added, placing a speedily made mug of coffee before Catherine, complete with two creams and two sugars, just the way she liked it.

"Have any scotch for this stuff?" she asked, trying to crack a joke and failing. Greg merely smiled sympathetically and shook his head in response. She took a sip and sighed anyway, obviously enjoying the Greg Sanders Coffee Experience.

"Thanks Greg. You make the best joe."

"I know I do," Greg replied, faking a snobby air. "It's a gift. You're lucky to have me."

She smiled and shook her head as she rose from the chair, still clutching her mug, and made her way towards the door. "I'm going to go help Yelina do something. Probably non-productive and worthless, but it's all we have right now."

"We can wait for Christopher and his two henchmen to break," Calleigh replied, trying to be helpful. "Sometimes that's all it takes."

"And you should buck up, boss," David added. Catherine turned towards the technician and arched a delicate eyebrow, silently demanding him to finish his nearly suicidal thought. It wasn't particularly wise to speak like that to ones superior, but David (who was so rarely nervous) didn't even flinch under her stare.

"Warrick doesn't like when you mope," he supplied, shrugging when Greg and Sara's eyes widened to the size of saucers. "Just because he's holed up in Desert Palms doesn't mean you should give up."

Catherine's eyebrows rose even higher. Greg cringed, expecting her to whip out her pistol within the moment, but instead she tossed her red hair back with a flip of her hand, stood a little bit taller, and strode out of the break room with a more purposeful step. Sara's expression was one of shock as she gazed at her boss, the sudden personality change surprising her. David's words had obviously done something to Catherine to kick her off her sulky road and back on track. Maybe it was the reminder that Warrick was perfectly all right in the hospital or that they had a murderer to catch, but damn if anyone was going to stop her now.

Sara, still startled by her sudden change, shook her head and rose from her seat as well. "I guess I'll go see about those bomb fragments," she announced, watching as the older woman disappeared down the hall. "Maybe our guy slipped up and left a print."

"Sounds like a plan," Greg replied. "Jacqui's battering the evidence as we speak. If that bomb knows something, she'll have the info in no time."

With a laugh and a farewell, Sara exited the room and marched down the hall opposite of Catherine. Greg and David gravitated towards the doorway themselves, taking part in the new energy that seemed to be buzzing around. Greg had, by then, managed to wipe away most of the yogurt, although he still looked ridiculous.

"You coming?" Greg asked, turning from the threshold. Ryan nodded, sending his boyfriend a smile from across the room. "In a second. I've got to pry some information out of Cal first."

Greg frowned, glancing at Calleigh and apparently wanting to know what Ryan could share with her that he couldn't share with him. However, he played it off and sent a sneaky look in David's direction instead, choosing not to pry. He wasn't possessive and there were some things you simply couldn't disclose with your lovers. If Ryan wanted him to know something, he'd reveal it in due time. "Okay. I'll be with Dave, annoying the hell out of him."

"There's a shocker," David replied, rolling his eyes. "Is there a day you _don't_ annoy the hell out of me?"

"David, that hurts."

"I'm sure it does, you freak."

Ryan and Calleigh watched as the technician and CSI walked out of the room, their ability to aggravate each other coming full circle. Greg was purposely being touch-feely, irritating David in the process. He was poking David's shoulder, looking as if he were saying something. David made a swipe for him, but Greg ducked, laughed, and they more or less shoved each other towards the trace lab.

Calleigh let out an amused "hm" as she watched the duo barely make their way down the hall before turning to the man in front of her.

"Pry some information?" she questioned, mirroring Catherine's previous action by arching a perfect eyebrow. "Should I ask or are you going to tell me?"

"I know it's going to sound crazy, but I… I just need to make sure of something," Ryan replied, taking a deep breath. He didn't want to talk about the night before (much less force Calleigh to remember it) but he simply couldn't help himself. He had to know the truth.

"Okay," she agreed, motioning for Ryan to take a seat next to her. "Tell me what's up. We haven't had our usual time to talk the last few days anyway."

"No," Ryan agreed, pleased that Calleigh seemed to miss their usual discussions. "But this isn't gossip related."

"Is it about Greg? Your relationship?"

"Greg and I are fine."

"A lot of my friends would probably agree," she said, laughing at Ryan's exasperated sigh. She knew he didn't enjoy being on center stage of anything, particularly romance, but she couldn't help but tease. If someone found him attractive, he'd ignore it or try and play it off as politely as possible. The strange thing was that Ryan had taken to Greg so quickly; he didn't try and ignore the advances as he usually did and that was both surprising and unwise, particularly in their current situation.

Their hearts were going to be broken.

She couldn't bear to think about it.

"It's about last night," Ryan began, unsure how to approach the sensitive topic and unaware of Calleigh's inner turmoil. "After the bombs went off, while we were still stuck inside… I thought I saw you in the corner. In the office, where we found the door."

"Corner?" she echoed, clearly perplexed at his words and forgetting her inner monologue for the moment. "I was upfront with Nick."

"But you were there in that corner, right? I mean, at some point in time? Because I…"

He trailed off, feeling uncomfortable at both Calleigh's concerned stare and his own questionable sanity. He _had_ seen someone over there, no doubt about it; he never would have thought to look in the office otherwise. It wasn't like Nick looked anything like Calleigh and happened to be waiting in a corner, staring at Ryan, as if trying to get his attention. Who else could it of been?

"But you have blonde hair," he feebly argued. He _wasn't_ crazy.

"Ryan, I can promise you that I wasn't even near that part of the building. If I were, I would have called you guys over and not waited." She paused for a moment and he steeled himself for the next inevitable question: _Are you sure you're okay?_

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," he reassured, his stomach knotting as he winced at the uncanny predictability. _Was_ he okay? Had it just been his imagination? Either way, he didn't want to bother Calleigh with it. "I think… it was probably my concussion playing tricks with me."

"Positive? The doctor said it was mild and you can work and all, but if you think you need some more help, I'll be glad to take you to Desert Palms."

Ryan smiled. "I'm positive, Cal. It was probably just a mix of the smoke and shock."

"Good. I'd hate for Alexx to kill me because I let you hurt yourself whilst in my care."

"It'd be amusing to see, though."

Calleigh rolled her eyes but smiled nonetheless. "The words of a true friend. Remind me to thank you later."

"Anytime," Ryan replied, sending her a smile and a two-fingered wave over his left shoulder as he rose from his seat and headed for the door. "See you in a few hours."

"You bet. And I better not hear that you've been eating more Skittles!" she called, her voice motherly even as he exited the room. "You'll get cavities!"

Ryan didn't turn back but shook his head nonetheless, Calleigh never failing to amaze him. She and Alexx were a motherly force to be reckoned with; Alexx would reprimand him if he didn't wear a jacket on cold days (not that Miami had many) or if she heard he'd been losing sleep. Too often, she'd ask if he was all right or if he needed to "talk about something." Calleigh was the same, almost notoriously so. Even Eric joined in if he knew it would humiliate the younger man; Ryan was the baby of the team and wasn't allowed to forget it. He had been holding his breath, waiting for a newbie to join the lab, desperate to get their attention on someone else. However, his prayers had yet to be answered and he was still a bit overprotected and worried over. What abou-

His thoughts veered off track when he felt himself run straight into another person. He recoiled at the impact and staggered back a few steps, trying to regain his footing while simultaneously attempting to see who he'd nearly run over. He quickly looked up, hoping it was Greg or David and not a stranger. Unfortunately, luck wasn't on his side; he had never seen the man before and wondered how important he was and how he could have possibly missed his looming presence in the hallway.

"Excuse me," Ryan apologized, quickly bending to retrieve the files the man had dropped. When had he become so clumsy? Perhaps it was the case or thoughts of home; speaking of which, memories of his home weren't particularly fond. As a matter of fact, he felt he could easily fit into Las Vegas just as well as Miami. The only thing he would miss was Alexx, Calleigh, and Eric; he wasn't sure he could do his job without them.

Ryan tried to clear his head, the frank question of "Who are you?" startling him back to reality. Ryan gathered the fallen papers before looking up to meet the gaze of a tall, imposing, slightly balding man. He bled neither empathy nor mystery; he was more or less a normal guy, void of Gil's calculating gaze or genius intelligence. However, he dressed sharply and had an important air about him. Lawyer? Administrator?

"Ryan Wolfe," the Floridian replied, quickly sticking out his hand in a polite gesture. "From Miami."

The man quirked an eyebrow and accepted the hand, their shake friendly. "Conrad Ecklie, assistant director for the lab."

Ryan instantly froze. How many horror stories had he heard about this man? Between David's cursing of the dayshift technicians and Greg's warning to "just keep a lookout," Ryan was at a loss as to how to act. Although Ryan doubted the man in front of him was actually going to bite his head off in the literal sense, he couldn't help but wonder if he had any intention of making the case any more difficult than it already was.

"So you're part of Horatio's team?" Conrad asked, taking his files back from Ryan's dazed grasp.

"O- yes, I am," Ryan awkwardly replied, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Working the Ellie Jenkins case."

"And you're partnered with…?"

"Greg Sanders. And David Hodges, now that I think about it."

"Hodges." It wasn't a question, merely a statement portraying Conrad's obvious distaste towards the other man. Ryan inwardly winced. What exactly had David done to deserve that kind of reaction?

"I think he's nice and an excellent technician," he defended, hoping he didn't sound like a petulant child. But could he allow someone bash his friend, especially one who (although derisive at times) was a loyal partner and comrade?

"So I gather. I suspected that you and Sanders were already… partners," Conrad retorted, holding up the daily issue of the _Las Vegas Sun. _Their now-infamous picture was staring right back at him, glaringly obvious in its context. "I don't suppose you understand the implications of this photo?"

"Well, sir," Ryan replied, feeling rather irritated and flustered at his current predicament. "It looks to me like we're happy to be alive."

"I'm not implying anything," Conrad countered. "This speaks for himself. I'm only saying-''

"Conrad!"

The two men turned towards the familiar voice and Ryan felt a wave of relief wash over him as he saw Doc Robbins shuffling their way. Conrad didn't seem as pleased to see the M.E. and shot the older man an impatient look. With a sigh, the dayshift supervisor waited for Robbins to join them, unhappy at being interrupted.

"Hi Doctor Robbins," Ryan greeted, genuinely happy to see the older man. Perhaps it was because Robbins seemed truly concerned on how well Ryan was fitting in and how the case was going, but the Floridian felt like he had a real ally watching his back.

"Ryan, what's it going to take for you to call me Al?"

"A loaded pistol and some of Greg's ramen."

"In other words…"

"Death."

"Then you should probably keep calling me Doctor Robbins," Robbins replied, giving Ryan a small, quirky smile before turning to Conrad. "I see you're tormenting an innocent young man," the M.E. observed, his tone one of disapproval. It wasn't as if Robbins had any power over Conrad, but Conrad still bristled at the allegation.

"Tormenting? Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Conrad, Ryan's a good CSI. Gil would hate to know you've been bullying a guest."

Conrad rolled his eyes and handed the newspaper to the younger man. "There's no need for either of you to get defensive. I'm just saying that for the sake of your own well-being, Wolfe, you should keep yourself out of the public eye for a few days."

Ryan knew that, despite Conrad's outward personality, he was honestly looking out for his and Greg's best interest. Las Vegas and its crime lab were generally accepting, mainly in the middle of the city, but there were still those who weren't very tolerant of homosexuality.

"Good to hear," Robbins replied, seemingly content at Conrad's response. "Anyway, I've got the results on your Bailey case."

Conrad, motivated by these words, quickly nodded. Robbins gave Ryan a wave of farewell before following Conrad down the hallway, their destination most certainly work-related in one way or another. Ryan couldn't help but smile to himself, watching as the two men made begin speaking about Conrad's case. Ryan could understand where everyone's opinion of Conrad stemmed from; the man didn't seem easy to know, but his heart was pretty much in the right place.

And between the good Doc Robbins and Alexx back home, it was hard to find a cooler group of people than M.Es.

…

Eric had never liked hospitals. He had been in so many to interview victims that he sometimes felt that the stark, white walls were closing in and that he'd never get the smell of sanitizer and antiseptic off of his skin. He would rather have been anywhere than where he was at the moment, which was riding the elevator up to the third floor where Warrick was staying.

Nick had been there for almost the entire night and following morning, and it was time someone either convinced him to leave or dragged him out kicking and screaming. Neither option was particularly appealing to Eric; he wasn't sure why Horatio, Gil, and Catherine even sent him. He would have thought that Sara or Greg would have a better chance of getting the Texan home; Nick knew them a lot better than he knew Eric and the probability of them convincing him to leave seemed much larger.

But both Sara and Greg were adamant about his going. Catherine was busy and so were Ryan and Calleigh; if he didn't know better, he'd venture to guess that they were more or less forcing him to interact with Nick and clear the air. But Eric didn't want to clear the air. Eric wanted to stay as far away as he could, he wanted Nick to not hate him for his cowardly approach on relationships and, more than anything, he wanted a bag of Skittles.

It was a good thing he'd grabbed one before Calleigh and Ryan practically chased him away from the lab, threatening bodily harm and matchmaking if he didn't either 1) confess, or 2) confess. He grimaced; they weren't exactly giving him a wide array of choices.

He tore open the red bag as the elevator doors 'dinged' opened and he stepped out into the main hallway of the third floor. Eric progressed down the hall, searching for room 327 and the man he was ordered to bring back. 323, 325… aha. There room 327 stood in all its glory. Eric peered in, catching sight of Warrick, whose leg was doctored up with several mechanisms. He glanced around, craning to peer through the rest of the room before rolling his eyes at himself. Warrick was sleeping and it wasn't as if he was barred from going inside. With a small sigh and a nervous breath, he pushed the door open.

And there he was. Nick sat in the corner, slouched against an uncomfortable chair, looking tired and worried.

"Nick?"

The Texan looked up at the voice. His hair was disheveled, his glasses were crooked, and his clothes were a mess, but he was certainly beautiful in his sincerity.

"Hey Eric."

Eric smiled and nodded towards the hallway. "Shouldn't we talk out here?"

"Nah. They've got 'Rick higher than a kite. But there's an extra chair here, if you're interested."

Eric nodded and closed the door before taking the seat next to him. "I've been sent with a message from the lab. They want you to rest without making a scene."

"Me? Make scenes? You must be thinking of someone else."

"Catherine warned me you wouldn't want to leave, so I'm telling you that I'll use force if I have to."

"Forgive me if I'm less than terrified."

Eric laughed and Nick grinned, visibly relaxing his tense shoulders. "I expected that," Eric replied. "I think they expect it too, but I refuse to let you live on hospital food and sleep in a chair. Why don't you come and at least get something to eat?"

Nick sighed, not meeting Eric's eyes, his gaze trained on a silent Warrick. "I don't know. He might come around soon."

"Nicky, it's a broken leg. We've all had one," Eric replied, his voice soft. "He'll be fine. He'll wake up and demand a nurse get him in some decent clothes and back in the lab."

Nick laughed, his voice heavy and tired. "Yeah, I can just imagine 'Rick doing that."

"And he wouldn't want you worrying yourself either. If anything, he wants us to solve this case."

"The case," Nick echoed, the words seeming to remind him of his profession as he finally tore his eyes away from his friend and to Eric. "How is it at the lab? Has anyone stumbled on anything case breaking or we still stuck?"

"First of all, we aren't stuck. Second of all, no. But we've got three main suspects and Brass is trying to crack them as we speak."

"Brass, huh? Well, if he can't do it…"

Nick trailed off, his words silent but understood. If they couldn't get the guilty to talk, Ellie would just be another cold case stored away on a shelf somewhere. It was so wrong; she had been such a bright girl, someone who wanted to change things and make them better. She wasn't sick or twisted… she didn't _deserve_ it. She was merely a victim of chance and it was unfair. She had the right to live out her life and although Nick was never one of sugar coat the issue or idealize a victim, the case still got beneath his skin. How could she and Christopher even be related? A human rights activist and a damn Neo Nazi couldn't possibly share the same blood.

There was a silence between he and Eric before Nick spoke again, a small smile twisting his lips upward. "I bet you weren't too thrilled to come here."

"Well, I can't say I'm a big fan of hospitals. The smells nearly kill me," Eric replied, wrinkling his nose and he chewed on a few red Skittles. "After you've been in so many, you prefer to just steer clear if you can."

"But there's no steering clear for you, huh?"

"Nick, I didn't mind coming here. I'm worried just like they are. But you put your heart into everything and… I don't know. It doesn't seem healthy," Eric said, letting out a small sigh. "Although I'm sure people really fall for that heart of yours."

"You didn't," Nick stated. Eric froze at that, allowing the words to sink in. They had tiptoed around the matter, glossed it over until it was something else completely, but the fact remained that Nick had tried everything in order to make Eric understand how he felt. He had been pushing so hard to open Eric up, to make him talk and express his feelings. But he, like so many others, was failing at the task. Eric couldn't help but want him to keep trying, but it was stupid to think anyone would waste their time on the impossible.

"I've been chasing you pretty hard," Nick whispered, averting his eyes and even in the shadowy recesses of the room, Eric could see the small coloring on Nick's face.

"Yeah," Eric replied, smiling despite himself. "I kind of noticed."

"I'm sorry," Nick replied, his voice holding a trace of forfeit. Eric's heart plummeted at the tone. "I should have known when to back off. I've been thinking about it… probably too much, but I just want you to know that I won't…" Nick trailed off, struggling for words. "Say anything else about it. My pushiness has probably been really obnoxious and I just got so ahead of myself."

Eric wanted to smile, wanted to support Nick's new resolution, but his throat was closing up and an embarrassing stinging made its way to his eyes. Why was he always trying to dissuade suitors who were interested in more than just sex? He and Ryan had the same problem, but for different reasons. Ryan wanted a real relationship with substance and not just sex, while Eric wanted the complete opposite, but they were both scared of getting close to someone; Eric had been close to Speed and had him violently ripped away. He wasn't sure if he could handle something like that again.

But he was so tired of lying.

And fighting.

And being alone.

"I used to date anyone," he whispered, unsure as to why he was confessing and not really caring. He needed to say this; moreover, he _wanted_ to. "I'd go to clubs for the sole purpose of taking someone home. After Speed died, I was so screwed up." He took a shuddering breath and paused a moment before continuing on. "If we were in Miami," he continued, his voice just barely above a murmur. "I wouldn't take you home. I'd ask you out for coffee or dinner because I wouldn't want to mess this up. I like you too much to just screw the possibility over."

"But we aren't in Miami," Nick finished, Eric confirming the fact with a nod. "That means…?"

"That means I can admire you all I want, but I can't make a move. Long distance never works and you're worth a lot more than just a romp in the bedroom."

Eric was already aware of how close they were and he felt dizzy when Nick leaned in even closer. "Why don't you let me decide what I'm worth?" the Texan whispered, his words holding hope and pleading simultaneously. Eric shook his head, trying to both say 'no' and clear his thoughts.

"Nick, this isn't a good idea."

"Why not?"

That was a good question. Eric certainly couldn't think of a reason, and Nick was making his brain short-circuit anyway. And if Ryan could do it; Ryan, who was so straight-laced and controlled by rules, then why couldn't Eric? Speed, his best friend in the entire world, wouldn't want him walled off to potential happiness. He wouldn't want him to punish himself by distancing his emotions from all of those around him. And Nick was so close anyway, his breath ghosting against Eric's lips that his defenses were crumbling into a useless pile of rubble. What would Horatio or Gil say, or how will it affect his friends, or how he was supposed to give Nick up when it was over?

They were all important questions.

And at the moment, they simply didn't matter.

Nick's lips were warm and slightly chapped, but they felt so _good_. It wasn't only day's worth of pent up energy that was flowing out, but their unwavering stance on this final decision. It was satisfying and resolute; satisfying because Nick not only wanted him, but also felt for him, craving not just sex but intellectual contact. He wanted to feed the emotional bond that had somehow held them together despite Eric's continuing denial. It was resolute in the fact that neither man was breaking away to excuse their actions or stuttering their way out the door, but determined to see it through. Not just the kiss, or the day after, but all of it.

"C'mon guys," Warrick complained, his voice rough with sleep but laced with humor. "Can't you go get a room?"

They quickly broke away, Eric looking appropriately embarrassed but Nick grinning widely. When had he woken up? How long had they been lip-locked in his conscious state? "Hey 'Rick. We were just-''

"Trying to see what each other's tonsils taste like? Yeah, I got you," the other man replied, grinning when Nick rolled his eyes at the expression. "At least you aren't moping around anymore."

"Moping around? I never moped," Nick defended.

Warrick shot a pointed look at Eric. "Eric, man, this guy totally moped. Glad you two got over whatever was stopping you. One more day of 'Why doesn't Eric like me?' and I would have shot myself."

"I never asked why Eric didn't like me!" Nick quickly retorted, shooting his wounded friend a 'you'll pay for that later' glare. "I merely wondered what… I mean, I was just curious as to why we couldn't seem to…" He trailed off, struggling for words. Eric, taking pity on him, smiled before placing his hands on the sides of Nick's face, silencing the other man with a kiss.

Warrick covered his head with the bed's blanket and muttered something under his breath.

…

Hours had passed, and evening had melted into midnight, which birthed the morning. Another night had slipped away and the team had made little headway in the case. However, the stress of the job seemed to dissolve whenever Ryan went home. Home, of course, wasn't his hotel room, which only Eric had occupied the past week or so. Home was with Greg, trying to cook or feeding the fish or listening to a CD that Greg always insisted Ryan would like and, surprisingly, he was right most of the time. Ryan did enjoy most of Greg's music, but his taste was often deterred by frightening Black Flag and Marilyn Manson covers. Those were the bands he'd wait to listen to, like on the day he went deaf.

But more than anything, home was when they were curled up together. Making love was always an amazing experience, but sometimes just being still, just talking and breathing and being together was what he wanted the most. A prime example of this strangely intimate act was occurring that very moment; they were both lying in Greg's bed, clothes still on, the only light streaming in from the open blinds. Ryan's head was resting on the other man's chest while Greg's fingers played with the Floridian's hair. His left hand was resting on Greg's chest and he could feel the rhythmic beating of Greg's heart against his palm. This was what he meant when he told Calleigh where he was going after work; she had asked that evening as they packed up their things, flipping her hair and inquiring if he'd be at the hotel. He had shook his head and replied that he'd be going home and then Greg had stuck his head in, informing Ryan that he was ready to go.

She had merely smiled and nodded.

Ryan closed his eyes, focusing only on the way Greg's heart beat under his hand. Above him, Greg couldn't seem to stop meddling with Ryan's dark hair, memorizing the way it felt against his fingertips. He had a feeling the case would be wrapping up soon and while it would be another victory for the crime lab, another criminal put behind bars, it would also be the end of their relationship as they knew it. Ryan's responsibilities were in Miami; Greg knew this, but the thought of Ryan leaving made him sick. His apartment would be strangely empty; none of Ryan's clothes would be hanging in his closet anymore and there would only be one toothbrush in his bathroom. Somehow, that wasn't right at all. He needed Ryan's health food in his refrigerator and his body to fill up the other half of his bed. He'd never thought he'd like sharing a bed with someone; he always wanted to sprawl and twist the blankets to his liking, but Ryan's presence was as natural as breathing. He couldn't live without breathing. Did that mean he couldn't live without Ryan?

"Greg?" Ryan asked, shifting to face his lover, unaccustomed to Greg's silence. Greg supposed he had been uncharacteristically quiet; he could rarely go five minutes without saying something unless he was absolutely beat. Ryan knew their day hadn't been particularly hard and there was little reason for Greg's sudden hush.

Greg met Ryan's eyes before he smiled, hoping to alleviate Ryan's concerns while simultaneously burn into his memory the way Ryan looked in Greg's room, the way he fit on his bed. Had they been living some sort of dream? Greg's life had been so full, so complete while Ryan had been there and it was going to be over so soon.

"I was just thinking," Greg answered, smiling at Ryan's obvious unease. "I do that sometimes, too. It's not just a Grissom thing."

It had been a joke, but Ryan knew Greg well enough to see through some of his more transparent lies. He adjusted himself from his previous position, flipping onto his stomach and propping himself up on his elbows. "Can I ask what you're thinking about? If it's about how great Calleigh looked today, I'm leaving."

That was also intended to be a joke, but Greg merely smiled again before speaking. Ryan frowned; Greg's usually bright expression had taken a leave of absence, replaced by the shell of what it had once been. It didn't even reach the blonde's eyes.

"Do you think if we lived in the same place," Greg began, gently touching Ryan's cheek with his fingertips, "We could be together?"

Ryan clasped his hand over Greg's, moving so that he was sitting up and able to see Greg fully. He couldn't deny that he'd been thinking the same thing, but what brought this on? He felt his breath hitch and his heart thump painfully.

"What do you mean?" It was a stupid question and Ryan knew it. He always asked that when he wanted to avoid a topic, although that was a rare quality for him. He usually tackled issues head on and got them out of the way, but things that truly hurt him –like this, for instance- were things he'd try to evade at all costs.

"I mean you can't leave me."

Ryan sighed, closing his eyes for a moment and squeezing Greg's hand tighter. They had both known this going in, but that seemed like such a long time ago.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, opening his eyes to meet Greg's. "I don't want this to end either."

"Then let's do something about it. You can stay here with me. I won't even charge you for tenant costs."

"Isn't that nice of you?" Ryan laughed, but the humor was short lived. His smile fell and his voice treacherously portrayed his swirling emotions. "You know I can't. My entire life is in Miami."

"Aren't I part of your life?" Greg asked, blinking quickly, almost as if he were trying to fight back some tears.

"Of course you are," Ryan urgently replied. "Absolutely. I just… I have an apartment and a job and friends. I can't… I mean, could you? Could you give up everything here and follow me across the country?"

Greg sat up. "We only have a few more days together," he whispered. "I just… I don't know what to do or how to act. I wish I could just let you go without a second thought. But I've never felt like this and I don't want to lose you."

Ryan's heart hit the bottom of his stomach. This was the moment he had been warning himself about, because with the laughter and nights beneath the sheets came the inevitable heartbreak and loneliness and pain. He swallowed back a sob, managing only to whisper a broken, "C'mere," before pressing his lips against Greg's, closing his eyes in a vain attempt to erase Greg's sorrowful expression.

Their kisses were slow, sensual, each trying to make it last for as long as time would allow. Ryan pushed Greg back to his former position; that is, laying flat on his back. Ryan climbed on top of him, straddling his hips and deepening the kiss even further. He just wanted to forget about Christopher and the airport and the media; his only desire was to be with Greg. No more questions and detectives and mysteries, either. It was draining him and those around him of their spirit, their confidence. And definitely, _definitely _no more bombs. Las Vegas could keep them and their now-demolished airport.

Suddenly, Ryan froze.

He opened his eyes to meet those of the man beneath him, Greg obviously confused as to why Ryan would want to cease their inevitable path to satiation. Ryan hadn't mean to, of course, but he couldn't stop his obnoxiously persistent thoughts. In most circumstances, he was completely lost in Greg's lips and hands and skin, but there was something in the back of his mind that wouldn't stop bothering him, an idea that hadn't occurred to him until just then.

"Ryan? What is it?"

Ryan couldn't speak at first, his thoughts still running circles around in his head. Airport. Bombs. Something inside of him clicked. The time line had been sitting in front of them for days and days, the answer right under their nose. How had they missed it? He supposed it didn't matter just so long as they got to the bottom of the case, no matter how long it took.

"Greg, how did Christopher think he was going to get the bombs past security?"

Greg quirked an eyebrow. "You're thinking about the case while we're ten seconds from being nak-'' He suddenly stopped, his previous words dead on his lips. His brown eyes grew a size larger and Ryan could practically hear the wheels of his mind turning. It was a question that had been bothering Ryan for quite a while, although he hadn't realized it until a few moments ago. It had been the issue that irked him since the beginning but he hadn't been able to zero in on the specifics or to identify the problem because he couldn't put words to it.

_How did Christopher plan to get bombs past airport security?_

"It's one thing for Christopher to plan out a bombing like that," he continued, allowing his mind to take him down the path and towards the answer. "But those bombs blew half of that place apart. It's hard to get anything explosive in an airport post nine eleven. I mean, when you think about it, the only people who can get past security…"

"Are the security guards themselves," Greg finished, sitting up, eyes wide and hair sticking up in every which way. "I mean, especially one who knows the place inside out. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"I'm thinking that one of the airport guards was helping Christopher."

"Then we're definitely on the same page. I'll call Grissom," Greg said, snatching his cell phone. "You'll call Horatio?"

Ryan nodded, quickly seizing his own phone. His mind was racing at a million miles an hour, bits and pieces of the case surfacing through his subconscious and the inaccuracies making themselves known. Details of the murder seemed to play before his eyes, as if he were watching a movie. The Emerald Isle Motel roof in Miami, the unmatched fingernail scrapings from under Ellie's nails, the way Ellie Jenkins's blonde hair splayed out around her head in a pool of her dried blood.

Blonde hair.

He halted, completely immobile as his cell completed the call to Horatio. It rang once, twice, not that Ryan was counting. As a matter of fact, his conscious had traveled into a completely different universe. _In the corner of his eye, Ryan could have sworn his entire bank account that he saw Calleigh simply standing in a far off corner of the burning airport lobby. Why a corner? And why stand, unmoving, in the middle of a catastrophe? He saw the blonde hair immediately, but when he turned to call to her, to tell her to start moving before she was caught under falling debris, it wasn't Calleigh standing there. As a matter of fact, no one was occupying the corner at all_. Even as he heard Horatio answer his cell with an admittedly tired voice, Ryan couldn't seem to form words. Standing in the middle of Greg's bedroom, he couldn't help but realize that Warrick would have died without that door… all four of them might have perished and the only reason Ryan had even found the door was because he thought he saw someone standing in the corner. It was an odd, creepy feeling that made his voice waver.

"H? It's… it's Ryan. I just had this thought and I was wondering if you could help me out."

…

Excerpt from Ellie Jenkins's diary:

_March 9th, 2005_

_I have to get away from Chris. He's planning something and I know people are going to get hurt._

TBC.

Next chapter: The case begins to unwind and the answers are discovered! Stay tuned for the almost-conclusion!


	12. Our Looming Destination

A/T: -waves- Hey everyone! Only a few more chapters left! Are you excited (or terrified?) While we're on the subject, you'll notice a lack of smut scenes in this story. By "lack" I mean "there aren't any." I just can't seem to get up the nerve to write one, so I apologize to anyone who might've been holding their breath for anything beyond kissing. This is more of "understood" writing.

Also, I know I've said this a million times, but I have never _ever_ written a mystery before. There are so many things I missed. I only say this because when the murder is resolved, it'll be 'cause I took a lot of literary licenses and snuck in a few case points that I didn't think to introduce in previous chapters. Sorry! –laughs- I hope you'll forgive me.

To Onigami Nanashi: Yes, I _adore_ Hodges and I'd love nothing more than to give him someone he can call his own, but alas, the numbers just don't work for me. I mean, everyone's either paired up or soon to be paired up and he's just the odd guy out. How did I let this happen? If anyone can think of someone to give my poor David, let me know. I'm serious. He needs someone.

To Braeca: I totally admit to the awkward phrasing! I started writing this last year, before I began getting serious about literature. Now I'm going through and trying to correct all of the mistakes, so soon it shall be perfect! You're right- there's no way Eric's staying in Vegas. My evil plot shall soon be revealed, so no worries. Thanks for the input!

Disclaimer: Not mine. Le sigh!

Out With It  
Act 12: Our Looming Destination

**…you can't come into the room without my feeling all over me a ripple of flame, and if, wherever you touch me, a heart beats under you touch, and if, when you hold me, and I don't speak, it's because all the words in me seem to have become throbbing pulses.  
**-Edith Wharton to W. Morton Fullerton, _1908_

Eric wasn't sure which phone was ringing –his or Nick's- but his sleep-deprived state didn't care to assist him in finding out. His mind didn't even recognize the possibility that it might _not_ be his phone; as far as his barely conscious condition was concerned, he was still in his hotel room on a normal night –well, day- getting some shut eye and wondering how in the world he was supposed to get through the next night without staring and/or embarrassing himself in front of Nick. He'd been doing an alarming amount of both the past few days and didn't particularly enjoy making a mockery of himself.

Instead, he grabbed the closest cell, flipped it open, and muttered, "Delko" while cursing whoever was on the other end.

"Eric?"

"I said Delko, didn't I?" he asked, wishing he could smash the phone with a big hammer and then go back to sleep. He knew it wasn't the wisest tone to reply in, especially considering the fact that it could have been his boss. His vision was too blurry to read the caller ID and his mind wasn't capable of recognizing voices at the moment; the President might be on the other end and Eric wouldn't know the difference until it was too late.

"Eric, it's Ryan."

However, he _did_ recognize names.

"Oh, Ryan. Hey. What's up?" Eric asked, falling back into the pillows, Nick shifting next to him. The Texan let a small sigh before wrapping his right arm around Eric's waist, dropping a kiss onto his bare shoulder before nuzzling the Cuban's neck. Eric grinned, trying to remind himself that he was on the phone.

"I was actually calling Nick."

"Nick?"

"Yeah, you know… tall, dark hair, good looking."

"I think you're describing me, my friend."

Ryan laughed and Eric fought off his own smile. He didn't really think of himself in such a snobbish manner, but he couldn't resist the joke. After all, he _was_ tall and he _did_ have dark hair. The "good looking" part was all a matter of opinion.

"Modest much?"

"It's a gift. Now go call Nicky and tell him whatever you want."

"Eric, I _did_ call Nick."

"Then why are we having this conversation?"

"Because this is Nick's phone. Should I ask why you answered it?"

Eric ripped the phone from his ear, horrified. Now that he looked at it, he realized that it _wasn't_ his phone, it was Nick's, and there was no way he could explain his way out of it.

"Ryan, I…" The beginnings of an excuse were on the tip of his tongue, but his mouth snapped shut and he rolled his eyes at the laughter on the other end. "Would you stop laughing?" he asked, his tone portraying his annoyance.

"Caught red handed," Ryan taunted, his words barely squeezed through bouts of hysterics. "Wait until Greg hears about this."

"You can't tell Greg!"

"Well, he's right here next to me. If I can open my mouth, move my tongue, and articulate words, I should be able to tell him without a problem."

"Ryan," Eric said, the name sounding suspiciously like a whine. "Don't do this."

"It's too late. He already wants to know what we're talking about."

"You have no idea how much I hate you right now."

"I'm sure Nick agrees. He's there, right?"

"Maybe."

"Next to you?"

"Perhaps."

"In the same bed?"

"That's between me and Nick and possibly God."

"Fine. Then tell Nick to shower and get back to the lab. We might have a lead on the case."

"A lead? We'll be right over."

"Just don't shower together. You'll never leave the house."

"You're perverse, Wolfe."

"Wonder who I learned it from, Delko."

"Probably that boyfriend of yours. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to attempt the impossible."

"And what's that?"

"Getting out of bed."

On the other side of the conversation, Ryan sighed. "I know that feeling all too well. Anyway, I'll do my part by telling everyone that you'll be here pronto. Do _your_ part by actually getting here."

"I guarantee I'll be there within the next week."

"Eric."

"Okay, okay, I'm up."

"Good boy. Half an hour, remember?"

"Don't remind me. See you in a while."

"Ditto."

Eric punched the End Call button before dropping it onto its previous location. How could he have been so _stupid_ as to answer Nick's phone? He knew Ryan was probably telling Greg at that very moment while Greg cackled with glee. Honestly, he was a moron. A tired moron, but a moron nonetheless.

"Who was it?" Nick asked, his voice muffled by the pillow and Eric's neck. "Please don't tell me was work."

"I won't, but don't blame me when you get fired."

Nick let out a groan and cracked a sleepy eye open. "Was it Ryan?"

"Yeah. Said we might have a lead in the case."

"A lead? What a time to get a lead. Middle of the day and they get a lead," Nick murmured. Nevertheless, he shifted from his position, dropping another kiss on Eric's collarbone.

"Want to shower first?"

"If you make some coffee."

"I think that can be arranged."

…

Despite their humorous phone conversation, Ryan's spirits weren't exactly high. As a matter of fact, they were trodden as he and Greg entered through the front doors of the crime lab. He _thought_ he had a lead, he _might_ have an idea of what happened, but how could he really know for sure? He sent a silent prayer, hoping that he hadn't stirred up a big mess and gotten anyone's hopes up. He began to mentally mull over the case, unaware of Greg's concerned gaze or the fact he hadn't spoken since their arrival.

"Ryan?"

Ryan was too lost in his own thoughts to hear the question; he began pulling at the hem of his shirt as he walked onward, not even realizing that he was giving himself away with the nervous gesture.

"Ryan, what is it?"

Ryan snapped back to reality, turning towards the familiar voice. Greg was giving him an anxious look, a troubled frown pulling at his lips. The blonde had stopped walking, Ryan echoing this action as they stood in the middle of the hallway, motionless.

"I'm just trying to figure out the case. I'd hate to think I stirred up-''

"Ryan Wolfe, you listen to me," Greg ordered, placing his hands on his hips. "You're a great investigator and your theory is the best one we've had so far."

"I know. I guess it's just that… I just don't want to disappoint anyone."

"Trust me, you won't. We'll get this guy and then go back home and sleep for a week. How does that sound?"

"Too good to be true."

"Yeah, I was thinking you looked a bit tired," Greg replied, waggling his eyebrows for effect.

Ryan blushed at the suggestive implication. "Well, you keep me up all night. Day. Whatever."

Greg grinned, but it wasn't a leer; it was more like affection before he leaned in and gave Ryan a quick kiss. In the past, Ryan would have shied away. Working patrol had given him a sense of what and what not to do in public, but he wasn't going to hide Greg and it wasn't like the entire city didn't know about them anyway.

"Guys, c'mon," came a groan from behind them. They quickly pulled apart to see an amused Warrick Brown standing behind them, balancing on a pair of crutches while his leg hung immobile in a cast.

"Warrick, my man," Greg greeted. "Do I get to sign your cast or what?"

"You stay away from me," Warrick warned. "I've seen your perverted doodles. The last thing I want is an outline of some guy's…" He trailed off, glanced at a grinning Ryan, and quickly changed course. "I don't have a marker, sorry. So what's the deal with the case?"

"Well, you're the guy to hit up for his bank transactions," Greg replied as he, Ryan, and Warrick began down the hallway, their pace slow so as to not leave Warrick behind. "Did Ellie's brother buy a plane ticket?"

"With his debit card," Warrick confirmed. "It took a subpoena, but we finally wrestled his finances down. He made a cash withdrawal as well, Yelina's still trying to figure out what it went towards. She thinks Christopher gave it to whoever shot Ellie. They had to buy a street gun when they got to Miami, y'know? Can't bring your own firearm onto a plane."

"Good to hear. Anything else particularly incriminating?"

"The guy bought some bomb supplies online and around town," Warrick replied. "We're trying to subpoena those too. It's gonna take a while."

As the trio made their way down the hallway, Greg caught sight of Jim Brass stalking through the corridors. The man was certainly intimidating, Ryan would grant him that. He was a hell of a cop, too. He wondered what sort of war stories he and Frank would be able to share over some hard scotch or bourbon.

"Hey Jimmy," Greg called, catching Jim's attention without a problem. "Do you have a marker?" Jim shot him a look that gave away two sentiments: 1) He _hated_ Greg's nickname for him and 2) _Why_ would he be carrying around a marker anyway?

"I'll take that as a no," Greg said, answering his own question. Jim cocked an eyebrow and nodded.

"Smart guy," the older man retorted before turning to Ryan. "You know your security guard theory? We went through the log from the night Ellie died. A man named Charlie Edwards didn't clock out until twenty-four hours later. Friends didn't see him after about midnight. Assumed he got sick or something and just forgot to put it in with his boss."

"Are you bringing him in?" Ryan asked, fighting off a wave of dizziness. Was it possible that his theory might be right?

"He's taking a ride in a black and white as we speak. He should be here in about fifteen minutes," Jim replied as the four began walking, Warrick hobbling behind.

"Did he try anything stupid like, for instance, resisting arrest?" Greg asked. Ryan inwardly grinned; Greg still wasn't over the insane tryst Christopher had put them through. Unlike Christopher, Ryan was fairly certain Edwards went without complaint.

"My guys said he was practically docile," the Captain replied. Greg let out a huff. Ryan bit his lip to hide the smile; yep, he definitely wasn't over it yet.

"That's just lovely. You know, I have half the mind to-''

"If it isn't the dream team," came a voice from behind, interrupting what Ryan was sure to be a heated but pointless rant from Greg's side. The four turned to see David Hodges leaning against a doorframe, arms crossed and the perpetual half-smile/half-smirk turning his lips upwards.

"Hi Dave. Here to annoy us?" Greg asked, the banter coming to him without any effort.

"Of course. It's why I get up in the morning. Or night, as the case may be," David retorted, pushing himself away and towards them. "I heard Grissom and Caine are ready to grill your suspect."

"Do you lab geeks do anything other than gossip?" Warrick groused, sending the technician a dirty look. "I swear I-''

"Excuse me if I'm not terrified of whatever elaborate threat you've come up with, Peg Leg Pete," David interrupted, sending him a bored look. "What are you going to do, beat me with one of your crutches?"

Even Jim (whose humor tended to breach the dark side) gave a small snort. However, it seemed that the quip reminded Greg of his original quest: a marker. Ryan didn't have the heart to tell him that most people didn't carry around markers for the fun of it. What if they leaked? What if the cap came off? No sane individual would risk good clothes and dignity for the sake of toting around something most people would never need anyway. Who _does_ something like that?

"Hey Dave, do you have a marker?"

David paused a moment before nodding, pulling it out of his lab coat pocket and handing it to Greg.

Ryan blinked.

There were sane individuals, and then there were the lab rats. He told himself not to be surprised, but the surprise came anyway.

"I was just using it on the glass board," the technician explained, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. The glass board was popular among the techs and a great place to collect ones scattered evidence information without wasting paper. "I'd ask why you need it," he continued, looking thoroughly perplexed as Warrick groaned in dread. "But I really don't want to know."

"I'm gonna sign Warrick's cast," Greg replied, grinning as he stooped and began to scribble down his name. Warrick, on the other hand, looked nauseous at the thought.

"Hodges, you have a vendetta against me or something?" Warrick asked, grimacing as Greg finished his name and began doodling.

"Not really, but any additional humiliation on your part is an added bonus."

Ryan gave a soft laugh at the comeback. "David, that's mean."

"No, that's just my personality. Mean would be for me to _intentionally_ carry around a marker for the specific purpose of humiliating Warrick. See the difference?"

"Only _you_ would make that distinction."

"What can I say? I was a born thinker."

"I believe you were a born _plotter_."

"You make that sound like a bad thing."

Greg, artistically exhausted, rose from his position and admired his handy work before sending David a grin.

"Thanks, Dave. The Leo da Vinci's of the world owe you one."

"Not a problem," David dryly retorted. "Glad I can contribute to the team."

"What did he draw?" Warrick asked. "God, do I even want to know?"

Ryan bent and examined the cast for himself. Greg had some shoddy handwriting at times, but his name was clearly legible; beside his signature was an odd sketch, hastily drawn. "It doesn't _look_ perverse," Ryan announced, continuing to study the strange figure.

"My money's on a dirty limerick," David replied, glancing at Greg with a knowing smile. "He's left enough of those around to last _several_ lifetimes."

"I'm betting it's a part of the male anatomy," Warrick muttered, letting his head fall back in despair. "It wouldn't surprise me. Do you know how long I have to wear this, Greg?"

"Actually, it looks like a… paper crane, I think," Ryan replied, tilting his head slightly. "With black squares?" There was a silence as the team tried to process the information, attempting to understand the significance. After a moment, Ryan suddenly let out a laugh and set his boyfriend a grin. "It's a paper crane made from a crossword puzzle. He's leaving his mark."

"Don't worry, Dave," Greg said, sending a lecherous smile in the technician's direction. "I'm leaving the dirty limerick for when you break _your_ leg."

David didn't look amused. "I came down here to tell you good luck on the interrogation, but I can see that won't be necessary."

The young blonde let out an offended "uh!" before striking a slightly theatrical pose by sticking his hands on his hips and throwing his head back. "Do you know what you need, David?" he asked; Ryan could already sense where this was going.

"_You_ need some basic intelligence."

"Hardy har har. You need a boyfriend."

"I need a vacation," David corrected. "Away from you."

"Oh, come on. Don't you think a significant other will make you relax?" Greg asked before turning towards Ryan. "Do you know anyone in Miami?"

Ryan grinned and shrugged nonchalantly. "Tyler's free," he replied. "He's a nice guy."

"And here I thought you were on my team," David groused, sending a accusatory glare in Ryan's direction. "Sorry if my career takes up most of my time."

"Romance lets people unwind," Greg countered. Ryan didn't understand why he was trying to win against David, because David _definitely_ wasn't one to back down from a word war.

"A Hawaiian beach would let me unwind. Now give me back my marker."

"Impatient much?"

"The marker, Sanders. The Jenkins trace won't run itself."

Upon hearing those words, Greg quickly returned the marker and everyone morphed back into a professional mode, the lighthearted conversation all but dissipating. David sighed, glanced towards his lab, and then looked back at the three CSIs and their detective.

"Anyway, good luck," he continued. "I hear the guy's a real bastard."

"He is," Ryan agreed, frowning at the memories playing through his head. The hateful words, the chase, and the absolute disregard for anyone else's life. "Cocky."

"Let's not forget he tried to outrun us," Greg remarked. "And ruined my good shoes, but I don't dwell on the past."

With a roll of his eyes, Jim began onwards, Greg and Warrick following. Ryan made a motion to follow as well, but a light touch on his elbow made him turn back again. He knew who it had to be –David, of course- but it was still surprising. David wasn't a touchy-feely type of guy; he mostly kept to himself, so Ryan was curious to know what he had to say that he couldn't real in front of everyone else.

"Yes?" Ryan prompted, hoping David would learn to open up one day. The other man paused for a moment, considering his words and then the sensibility of saying them. After a moment, he finally spoke.

"Don't be so nervous," the older man advised. "You're a good CSI. Everyone knows it, so don't let this guy get the best of you."

"What makes you think-?" Ryan began, absolutely stunned. Whatever he expected to come out of David's mouth, it wasn't that. Maybe a question or a light rib, but kind guidance? It was wildly unexpected.

"It's insulting to think you can BS me," David plainly stated, not waiting for Ryan to finish the question. "You're terrified that your theory's worthless. You shouldn't be."

Ryan gave him a small smile. "Thanks. That means a lot, especially coming from you."

"I know. I save those kinds of speeches for the truly desperate, so consider yourself fortunate."

"I'm the King Midas of CSIs. Your wise counsel is greater than gold."

"What a clever metaphor," David replied, rolling his eyes. "Now get in there and make sure Grissom kicks ass. Jacqui and Bobby have money on this."

"What? How? One of them thinks we won't get this guy?" Ryan asked, trying to hide his disappointment. He had made friends with David's lab rat buddies; he was sure they had been confident in the CSIs working the case. Why would they think their investigative counterparts couldn't do this? Ryan hated himself for feeling so uncertain. His mindset had improved since he met Greg –hell, he came out to the entire city- but he wasn't on Greg's level yet. He still had a lot of insecurities that would take more than a case in Vegas to fix.

David gave him a half smile, as though he could read his mind. Then again, Ryan's doubts were probably clear when one took the moment to observe him.

"More like how long it'll take to make him confess. Bobby says an hour, Jacq's got her money on forty-five minutes. Personally, I think if you put Greg in there and get him to do some pseudo rock star act, that guy'll be begging for a yellow legal pad and a pen in five minutes or less."

"I'll drop the hint to Gil and H."

"See that you do," David replied, and without another word, turned and headed back towards his trace lab. Ryan watched him leave, keeping his semi-kind words in mind as he turned and hurried towards the interrogation room. He knew Greg, Warrick, and Jim were already there and the interview had probably already started, but he doubted he'd missed much. After all, despite Jacqui's confidence in them, Christopher was going to be a tough nut to crack. It was going to take time and hard evidence if they ever hoped to get him talking.

But when he entered the viewing room, Ryan was surprised to see that along with the three he'd just been talking to, Gil, Horatio, Nick, and Eric were there as well. Ryan could see Christopher and his lawyer waiting through the one-way mirror, the overhead light giving the room an odd glow.

"Hey, what's going on? That lawyer looks like he's going to blow a gasket," Ryan observed as he closed the door behind him. Had they been waiting for him? He hoped not; besides, there wasn't any reason to. He, Warrick, and Greg were just going to watch from the window.

"I asked the same thing," Greg replied. "They're being mysterious, won't tell me anything."

"Now that Ryan's here, we won't keep you on your toes any longer," Gil retorted, glancing up from a pile of papers and peering through his glasses, his blue eyes making Ryan feel as though he were naked in the middle of a crowd.

"Okay," Ryan slowly began, glancing towards a similarly bewildered Greg. What were they up to? Why had they been waiting for he and Greg? "We're listening."

"We figure that you two have been leading this case onward," Horatio said, his expression and demeanor one of absolute calm. "You know the details inside and out. You've met our suspect a number of times. We feel that you should interview him yourselves and see what you get."

"Wait a minute, us?" Greg asked, frowning. "The last thing we want to do is screw this over. Wouldn't you feel better-?"

"We have confidence," Nick replied, sending his best friend a big Texan grin. "We'll be out here rooting for you. Brass'll be in there, of course, but it's your party from there on out."

"No, listen, we're a pair of Level ones," Greg said, his tone urgent. Usually he would jump at such a great opportunity, but this case was too delicate to risk. "We've interviewed before, I know that, but not on our own. This case is made of glass."

"Greg, you understand glass better than any of us," Gil replied. Greg swallowed, realizing his boss had a point; Greg understood glass, what it looked like in the glow of a fire and what it felt like imbedded in your skin. He glanced at Ryan and their eyes met; Ryan, too, understood the jagged edges and transparency. He had seen Greg's scars, kissed them and counted each one on his back.

Their eyes held and there was silence for a moment.

What about this case? It could all fall apart. We've been working too hard to let it crumble. And what if he doesn't take us seriously?

But we've been working like crazy the past week and a half. Everything we've done has added up to this. And we're the CSIs; even if Christopher isn't scared, he will be. He should be.

We haven't come so far to back away now.

"We're in," Greg instantly announced, as though they hadn't been battling it a moment ago. Ryan turned and nodded in agreement. Horatio had to wonder what that… thing… was; that moment he'd just seen transpire between the two young investigators. It was almost as if they were able to draw strength and find confidence in each other when they couldn't find it in themselves alone.

Jim nodded as Ryan and Greg entered the interview room, Ryan's stomach feeling like stone. Was he sure they had made the right guess? Was he sure they hadn't missed any evidence? He focused on the suspect before them, willing his insecurities into the back of his mind. It was time to forget the nervousness and numerous possibilities; he knew Christopher was responsible. He _knew_ it. And he and Greg were going to prove it, no matter what.

"You two ever catch your breath?" Christopher asked as Greg shut the door behind them. His lawyer, Jeff Pierceson, frowned at the remark but didn't prohibit his client from speaking. Ryan grimaced, the memory of their downtown chase fuelling his anger. Christopher Jenkins, unlike his sister, was a cocky know-it-all.

"Big words, Chris. Oh, and I forgot to ask how lockup is treating you," Greg retorted, sliding into the chair across from him. Christopher didn't reply to this, although it was clear he felt Greg's words were insulting. He shot them both a dark look but didn't speak.

"Did your attorney tell you why you're here?" Greg asked, casually flipping a folder open, as though he were talking about the weather.

"Yeah. You have some shit theory you're trying to pin me under."

"Exactly," Greg replied. "I'm sure Mr. Pierceson told you how we _love_ wasting our time with shit theories."

"Can we get on with this?" Mr. Pierceson asked, annoyance tingeing his voice. "I don't have all night."

"But we do," Jim replied. "So sit down and relax. Coffee?" His offering held such a sardonic tone that the lawyer merely shot him an ugly glare before focusing his attention on Greg once more.

"Aren't your bosses supposed to be in here?"

"Actually, Greg Sanders and Ryan Wolfe are leading the investigation," Jim calmly responded. "Your client should answer any question they ask. You know how this works, right?"

"Of course. I suggest they start asking or we're leaving."

"Mr. Jenkins," Greg began, leaning back into his chair, hiding his nerves extremely well. "I know you said that you don't remember what you were doing the night your sister died, but I have a feeling you not only remember what you were doing, but where you were and who you were with. Am I right?"

"As usual, you're wrong," Christopher replied. "And if you keep guessing, we're going to be here 'til morning."

"We've got nothing but time," Ryan replied, choosing not to sit. "It's not going to bother us."

"It might bother _me_."

"As you can tell, we're really broken up about that," Greg replied. "Besides, this isn't going to go anywhere if you insist on lying to us. For instance, you know the thing about airports? They have surveillance footage."

Christopher shifted in his chair but shrugged his shoulders, as though he didn't care.

"This footage caught your sister running into the Las Vegas Airport, buying a ticket to the next available flight, all without luggage or a purse. Can you guess why that is?"

"She was a freak. Probably didn't even have a reason," Christopher replied.

"We think she did," Ryan interjected. "We think she was being chased, and we think _you_ were her pursuer."

"Think so, huh?"

"Here's what happened," Ryan began, leaning closer to the suspect. "You and your two trigger-happy buddies were planning to destroy the airport and your sister caught wind of it. She was coming home from work on a regular morning, right? She opened the door and heard you three talking about the specifics, but her clothes don't exactly blend in well and you caught sight of her within a few seconds."

"She was terrified," Greg continued. "You started chasing her out of the house, but she was faster and managed to get into her car and drive away before you could beat her into a pulp. She knew she couldn't go back to The Alaska because you'd look for her and you lived out in the middle of nowhere. The closest precinct was miles away."

"She knew you'd find her anywhere, especially with your friends behind your back," Ryan offered. "She had to the flee the entire city, so she saw the airport and knew it was her only way out. She drove up and you lost her car in the traffic, but _you_ knew she would stand out in a crowd. The airport's a huge a place, so she had already bought her ticket in a panic and boarded the flight."

"This is an entertaining story," Mr. Pierceson interrupted. "But does it have a point?"

"Shut up and listen," Greg snapped. He turned back towards Ellie's brother, who had yet to speak. "Know what tipped us off? Your impatience. The teller remembered you because you thought you had some right to cut the line. She made you get in the back and wait like everyone else. You didn't need the entire security division on your ass, so you calmed down and bought a ticket for her same flight when it was your turn."

"This is what didn't make sense," Ryan continued. "_You_ never left the city, but you were obviously responsible for her death. However, no one saw your friend Mr. Edwards for almost twelve hours. He never clocked out. He simply changed into his street clothes, took your ticket, and boarded the flight in your place. Ellie didn't know who he was, so she finally felt safe."

"Ellie didn't have a purse on her," Greg said. "But she had cashed her check the hour before and kept her money tucked away in her blouse. She was able to buy a ticket and rent one scummy motel room before being completely out of cash. Edwards followed her to the motel and chased her up to the roof where he shot her twice."

Christopher was silent on his end of the table. His hands were clasped; he glanced towards them before looking back up. He steeled his jaw and Ryan held his breath.

Finally, "She deserved it."

"She deserved it?" Greg echoed. "She wanted a life away from _you_. I can't say I blame her, considering you thought she was your personal punching bag."

"She was a fag. She danced and had girlfriends."

Greg smiled, but it was more derisive than anything. "You'll have quite a while to think about it, won't you? Twenty-five years to life is a long, long time."

"My client isn't going to jail," Mr. Pierceson interrupted. "All you have is a story. Juries don't convict on possibilities."

"So you want evidence," Greg mused, reaching into his jacket pocket and withdrawing a familiar evidence bag. "We can do that. This, my friend, is your client's phone. My partner found it taped to the bottom of a chair in the airport. Before you blew it to pieces, that is."

"There's no proof my cli-''

"Spare us the bull," Greg interrupted. "Christopher thought he was one hell of a smart guy. There isn't a single print on here, so he obviously used gloves. He tried to clean off the receiver so we couldn't get his DNA."

"If you don't have his-''

"I said _tried_," Greg interjected. "He _tried_ to remove any trace of himself, but he missed. It gets stuck in the receiver holes here, Chris. Surely you know that."

"If it's his, why didn't he throw it away instead of risking the chance of you finding it?"

"It's a camera phone, Slick. Edwards doesn't own a cell phone, so your client left it in a place where he told Edwards he could find it. Charlie wanted to make sure he was going to kill the right woman."

"Just because it's his phone doesn't mean he's the one who used it in this murder."

"The phone's just part of it," Greg easily replied. "You remember those two guys you hired to assassinate our CSIs? They don't like lockup as much as you do."

"You're missing the point," Mr. Pierceson replied. "My client didn't even leave the city. He didn't _kill_ Ellie Jenkins."

"But he initiated the entire thing. Do you think Edwards would have given a damn about Ellie if Christopher hadn't begun planning his terrorist activities?"

"I'm _not_ a terrorist!" Christopher snapped, his face contorting in anger at the accusation. "Those were the kind of people I was trying to get rid of! If we got rid of the airport, it would take months, even years to rebuild. Do you know what the movement could accomplish by then?"

"No, and I don't care to," Ryan replied. "You and "the movement" are going to jail. We'll round them up, one by one. Every ticking bomb they've placed and every innocent bystander they've murdered is going to catch up with them. It's impossible not to leave a trail."

"Good luck with that," Christopher replied, wearing a smug smile. "The trail's going to be hard to find."

"Maybe you haven't caught on yet," Greg replied. "So we'll explain it to you. This is the Las Vegas crime lab, second best in the country. If there's a trail, we'll find it. If there's a clue, we'll discover it. If there's a single trace left behind, we'll search until we get it. You made a mistake by messing with the graveyard shift, Chris, because we don't sleep."

"You think you can stop us?"

"I know we can."

Christopher shot up from his seat, making for a threatening figure as he advanced towards a seated Greg. Ryan, however, didn't give him the chance; he was there before Jim could even move, his brown eyes locked on their suspect's own. Christopher blinked, trying to hide his alarm; he wasn't wary of Ryan's presence before, but Ryan hadn't looked like he was ready to kill, either.

"I would you suggest you sit back down," Ryan advised, his voice taking on a low, dangerous whisper. "We aren't finished."

When Christopher made no move to obey, Ryan slammed his hand against the table, pleased to see that Christopher actually jumped before practically collapsing back into his chair.

"I'm sick of your holier than thou mind games," he snapped, his patience worn to its breaking point. "We have spent a week and a half wasting our time so we can chase your stories. You had two of your friends try to shoot our CSIs, you resisted arrest, and you almost killed us with your bombs," Ryan hissed, his dark eyes flashing with actual hatred as he smacked a picture of Ellie's autopsy picture onto the table. "Take a look at this. This is your sister. _This_ is what Charlie Edwards did to her. We found her on a motel roof surrounded by her dried blood. And as glad as I'm sure you are, we are finished playing games with you."

Ryan was aware that Horatio and Gil were on the other side of the mirror, watching their two youngest CSIs interrogate, but Ryan couldn't bring himself to care. If they had a problem with his methods, they would intervene. Until then, Greg and Ryan knew the rules of the game and had Christopher squirming for once.

Christopher's usual snotty attitude seemed to buckle slightly. He glanced at the pale face of his dead sister and his eyes flickered upwards.

"She deserved it," he whispered again, but his voice was void of its usual resolution.

"What gave you the right to make that choice?" Greg asked, shooting a dark look towards their suspect.

"This isn't a moralistic debate, gentlemen," Mr. Pierceson interjected. "It's a question of law. My client refutes any allegations you've made so far. You're blowing smoke."

"Pretty quick to get this over with," Greg observed. "Any particular reason why?"

"I don't like when people waste my time," Mr. Pierceson snapped back. "Is there anything else?"

"Actually, there is," Ryan replied, turning towards Christopher. "We want to know about the bombs."

"Bombs? You're joking."

"Does it look like we're laughing?" Greg asked, ignoring the lawyer in favor of Christopher. "Have you ever tried to explain something, but couldn't find the right word?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"That's what happened to us. Our team examined the case from every angle after the airport was turned to smithereens. We knew the answer was right under our nose, but we couldn't seem to put our finger on it until my brilliant partner asked how you got bombs past an airport _buzzing_ with security. That got us thinking. The only thing that can get past security is security."

"We know Edwards helped you, Christopher," Ryan said, leaning against the table. "We're bringing him in."

"Maybe you should explain to your client that this is it. The end of his life." For such a bright spirit, his voice portrayed his darker side, the part of him that was elated to see someone like Christopher miserable.

"It's not a fair trade for Ellie's, but it's close," Ryan finished as Christopher fell silent. On the other side of the glass, Horatio watched his young CSI. Ryan was stronger somehow, more sure of himself. He hadn't transformed into a know it all, but he was more confident. Who was it that brought it out in him? Greg?

Mr. Pierceson cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, we're done here."

"What, no confession?" Greg asked, mock surprise in his voice. "And here I thought we laid it all out for you."

The attorney bristled in his expensive suit, looking pale beneath the light. "We plan on going to court-''

"Give it up," Christopher snapped. "Just give up the bullshit, Jeff. There's no point."

"No point? Chris, you have a right to a trial."

"Yeah, and what'll that get me?" He turned his hateful eyes towards Ryan and Greg. The two CSIs returned it without a flinch.

"You win," he muttered. "But others will follow. We'll shape the world into what it was meant to be."

"You're right, you won't be the only ignorant man with a bomb," Greg replied. "More are going to do exactly what you did, all for the sake of killing people they don't believe are worthy. But Chris, we'll be here. When that happens again, there will _always_ be more of us waiting to find you and put you where you belong."

"That's a little hypocritical, don't you think?" Christopher asked, a vicious tone to his query. "Aren't you the one who's judging me? Weighing whether I'm worthy or not?"

"There's the difference," Ryan replied, watching the emotions flicker past Christopher's face. He hid his fear and regret beneath hatred and defiance, somehow believing he could ignore authority for a cause that only resulted in one thing: death. That's what the Nazi's did and the young man before him proudly bore their symbol. How many people did this man want to kill? Hundreds? Thousands? Millions? How many until his hunger would be fed? Ryan steeled his jaw; he didn't want to know. But men like these had no conscious, they grew up to stain nations and end the lives of entire populations. "You gave us the right to judge you when you told Charlie Edwards to put two holes in your sister's chest."

Christopher didn't reply. Instead, he gazed at the picture before him, soaking in the way his dead sister looked up at him through blank eyes.

…

Instead of going through the door where Gil, Horatio, and the rest were waiting, Greg and Ryan opted to follow out the opposite door, stopping just outside the interrogation room and watching Christopher, his officer, and his attorney move away and towards a holding cell.

"We solved the case," Greg murmured, his voice reflecting his amazement, unable to tear his eyes away from the bright orange jumpsuit that failed to hide Christopher's swastika tattoo. Ryan blinked and nodded, grinning. They had done it. Hours and days of live guns, exploding bombs, collapsing buildings, bags of Skittles, cups of delicious coffee, and moments of utter boredom while they waited for David's trace machines to do their magic. The mystery was solved and Ellie was going to get her justice.

"We did," he agreed. "It's over. He won't see the sun for years."

"It's over," Greg echoed, and his smile, the excited one brought by victory and triumph slid away. Ryan furrowed his brow, concerned by Greg's sudden detour into misery.

"Greg, we got him. There's-''

"It's over," Greg repeated, Ryan freezing when the words finally sunk in.

The case was closed.

And their relationship was finished.

TBC.


	13. The Long Road Home

A/T: Like _Snapshots_, it'll feel like a child flying the coup when I finally finish this up. You love your children (or stories) and don't want to let them go, but you know they've matured and will do great things. (Well, I'm not sure how much a fic itself can do, but I can hope!)

Disclaimer: Never mine, but oh! If only they were.

To Braeca: You're the best! You're right: I portrayed early-Ryan; the quiet, timid one… but I figured if someone threatened Greg, he might get a little vicious. -snorfle- _Like watching fluffy little puppies growl at strangers. _Hilarious. :D

Dedicated to both Braeca and Onigami Nanashi, who seem to believe in this story more than I could ever imagine.

Out With It  
Act 13: The Long Road Home

**This morning I tried to gain calm and strength for the separation.  
**-Tsarina Alexandra to Tsar Nicholas of Russia, _1915_

The problem with having an all-expense-paid trip to another city was the one approving the check –that is, Miami-Dade County- didn't want anyone to hang around after the case was closed. In their eyes, a few extra days off were tax dollars poorly spent. Ryan was sure that if he were a politician (and thank God he wasn't) then he would whole-heartedly agree, insisting that the investigators jump the first flight back to their home state and quit sucking up the city funds.

But he wasn't a politician.

So he wasn't surprised (disappointed, yes, but not surprised) when Horatio called his cell the next evening. It wasn't a welcome call, considering that Ryan was in Greg's kitchen, cooking them up something halfway edible to eat while Greg attempted to find some clean forks. Ryan had somehow known that the call would come and the latest hours he had been spending with Greg were often punctuated with glances towards his cell, as though it were some sort of hazardous, threatening object.

He stared at the small phone for a moment, listening to its shrill ring and watching it vibrate across the table surface. Perhaps if he willed it to stop, it actually would? Maybe if he silently demanded that people leave them alone, they would listen?

But the ringing didn't stop and he couldn't stand to listen to the noise any longer. He snatched it up, flipped it open, and answered, "Ryan speaking."

"_Mr. Wolfe_."

Ryan immediately grimaced. The only one who ever called him by that name was his third grade teacher and Horatio Caine. Considering he had happily said sayonara to Mr. Flannigan in elementary school, the only other possibility was his boss. Ryan swallowed the feeling of sickness that clambered around in his gut and willed himself to speak, stealthily sneaking towards the living room, having no desire for Greg to overhear their conversation.

"H. What's up?"

"_I've put the word to Miami that we've wrapped up the Jenkins case_," came the calm reply.

Ryan's grip tightened around the phone and he leaned heavily against the couch armrest. "Ah," he said, feeling his heart nearly stop beating. It wasn't much of a response, but he was lucky to manage even that one-syllable utterance. He wanted to ask why Horatio had dialed Miami so soon. Even better, he wanted to say _That's nice, but I don't think I'll be joining you. I'm kinda happy where I am. _However, Ryan didn't imagine either of those two replies would go over very well with his employer. "I see."

"_We're on the first plane to Miami_," Horatio continued. "_I stopped by your room at the hotel, but you weren't there_."

"I'm at Greg's."

There was a hint of amusement in Horatio's voice as he said, "_I thought so. Eric seems to be missing as well_."

"I have a couple of guesses to where he might be hiding out."

"_You aren't the only one_," the red head responded. "_Listen, we're meeting up Henderson Airport_."

"Yeah," Ryan confirmed, hoping Horatio couldn't hear the disbelief in his tone. "I'll meet you there. What time?"

"_Two hours_."

Ryan tried not to choke on his own tongue, because Horatio couldn't possibly have said what Ryan thought he'd just said. Two hours? That was ridiculous. More than ridiculous, it was absurd! He didn't care how much money this investigation might cost the county, Ryan couldn't honestly believe that they were being hoarded back to their home state already. They had closed the case a mere twelve hours ago. It wasn't fair.

"Two hours?" he echoed, wondering whether the dazed, incredulous voice he heard was really his.

There was a pause at the end of the line before Horatio's words broke through the silence. "_I'm sorry, Ryan_."

…

"So have you forgotten what this room looks like?"

Eric's question barely broke through Ryan's dead water thoughts as he stood in the middle of the hotel room, looking around him as though he didn't understand where he was. All that he could seem to concentrate on was the memory of Greg's face; the expression Greg wore when Ryan said they were leaving Las Vegas in two hours. The meal they'd been preparing sat uneaten as they stared at each other for a long, quiet moment. Two hours. They had fallen into a routine, had a relationship, and it was going to slip between their fingers in one hundred and twenty minutes. It wasn't fair, wasn't right, but what could they do? Stop time?

"Ha ha. I'm fairly sure you've been memorizing the inside of Nick's house the past few days, Fabio," Ryan retorted as he managed to find the bedroom. The hotel room was oddly familiar, a predictable reflection of every other disgusting lodge he'd ever stayed in. It all felt so strange now; to think he'd arrived here and unpacked with no expectations. As a matter of fact, he had been counting down the days until he could leave. And now? Now he wished the hours would simply stop and he and Greg could continue on with their lives without Miami politics polluting the air.

"Ouch," Eric replied, but it lacked the usual playfulness it had when they'd first arrived. Their banter was painfully forced. Ryan wanted to tell him to give it up, that they both saw through each other's camouflage, but he didn't want to see the dread Eric was hiding underneath his artificial persona. Ryan was fairly sure Eric didn't want to see his, either.

They began packing in silence. It wasn't uncomfortable; as a matter of fact, it was almost like they didn't even realize the other man was there. They were in a zone, lost to their thoughts while going through the motions akin to a robot. Ryan found his shirts and slacks, folding them neatly, cleaning his toothbrush with alcohol and storing his hygiene products in Ziplock bags. Eric, on the other hand, was freer with his packing habits. He mainly stuffed his used clothes into the case, leaving any unworn things folded. Secondary items were thrown on top and then it was forced shut. They cleaned out the fridge and bathroom, making sure the drawers were empty and nothing was left behind.

The two collapsed onto the couch, as though they had gone through some sort of vigorous act. It was, in their defense, exhausting. Their feelings weighed them down, acting as invisible chains that wrapped around their necks and made them exert more energy than usual.

"Eric?"

Ryan's voice, despite its soft tone, seemed to amplify itself in the middle of the lackluster room.

"Yeah?"

"How did you say goodbye to Nick?"

There was a silence in response. Ryan idly wondered if he should have even asked the question in the first place. He turned, looking at Eric through intent, weary eyes. They both knew this conversation was coming; there was no point in avoiding it. Besides, why not get it over with in the privacy of their quasi-living room?

"I told him H called. I told him we leave in…" Eric glanced at his watch before sighing. "An hour."

"And?"

"And he's a scientist. We both know there are a lot of variables in a relationship. For one, people tend to 'fall in love' when they don't have a long amount of time together. There's also the honeymoon period, where Nick and I overlook each other's faults that'll drive us crazy later. And then there's the logistics of the entire thing, because long distance never works. So he dropped me off here, we said goodbye, and they're gonna meet us at the airport for a final farewell."

It wasn't what Ryan wanted to hear. His biggest concern was that Eric usually played the optimist role while Ryan was far more practical. It sounded as though Eric had reached into Ryan's head, grabbed a speech, and used it for himself.

"You sound like me with all that common sense," Ryan said, giving Eric a tired smile. "It's scary."

"If your emotions don't give you a break, you gotta guard yourself with reality," Eric replied. "You taught me that. If it weren't for you, I don't think I could get through this in one piece."

There was another lull in the conversation as they gazed out the large window and into the Las Vegas skyline. Ryan turned to face his friend once more.

"And you really believe all that stuff you just said?" he asked. He was surprised to hear Eric give a stark laugh, laced with loneliness and regret.

"No, I don't," he answered, a small smile twisting his lips upward. "I don't believe a word of it, but it's the only thing that's gonna keep me sane."

_"Two hours? Ryan, no, how could they- you have to tell Horatio two hours isn't enough," Greg said, well-hidden apprehension tingeing his voice. "Think of all the lose ends. What about- what about the paper work? Besides, it takes a long time to pack everything up in a hotel. You need a couple more days."_

_All Ryan could do was clutch his phone as they stared at one another, the full reality beginning to sink in. "I don't think he's going to buy that," Ryan finally managed to whisper. He blinked, trying to rid himself of the stinging in his eyes._

"_Ryan-''_

"_You'll meet me there, right?" Ryan asked, slightly embarrassed by the hint of desperation in his tone. "To see us off?"_

_Greg watched the other man through brown eyes. It was all moving so quickly, so crazily. _

"_Of course. I'll get Nick to give me the flight."_

…

On the way to Henderson Airport, Ryan and Eric did paper, rock, scissors to see who got the window seat. Like always, Eric was victorious, but Ryan didn't really mind. There were other things weighing more heavily on his shoulders that he'd rather not dwell on. The only thing that kept him from breaking down was the thought of seeing Greg before the flight back to Miami. It wasn't his fault that the hope of making it work kept building up inside of him. He had never wanted anything so badly as he wanted the relationship with Greg to continue.

The airport was extra busy, considering the fact there was one less operating in the Las Vegas area. Ryan was sure they could flash a badge or state I.D. and skip a few waiting lines, but they weren't in a particular rush. They still had thirty minutes until the plane even started boarding passengers, so they waited as security swept them over with metal detectors and checked their baggage. Ryan never thought he'd reach this point, but he actually _wanted _the lines to take their usual slow pace. Maybe then they'd accidentally miss the flight. Maybe there would be bad weather. Maybe the plane would have a few technical difficulties. He didn't care how it happened; he just wanted an excuse to stay in Vegas.

Considering circumstances weren't usually in his favor, Ryan knew those situations weren't plausible. The lines were moving in a timely manner, it was a clear day outside, and he was fairly sure the plane was in good working condition. Before he knew it, ten minutes had passed and they were sitting in the plastic seats, waiting for someone to start calling their flight number. The chairs were uncomfortable, but Ryan's mind had long since zoned out. Calleigh, sensing the heavy cloud over he and Eric, began chatting as she always did, a bright smile on her face as she went on about… well, Ryan wasn't quite sure what it was about, exactly, but he was certain she was putting an interesting twist on it. If only he could pay attention instead of waiting for a certain group of faces to appear. If only he could detect Catherine's blue eyes or Warrick's unmistakable voice; then maybe Greg would be with them, ready to see Ryan off.

Voices seemed to fade as Ryan glanced out the large windows, watching planes creep forwards on immense landing strips. Men and women in uniforms were running about, preparing the flights while attendants began boarding first, ready for yet another journey across the country. He took a deep breath, trying to ready himself. This was the day he'd been waiting for. Anxiously at first, and then dreading it as he began to know Greg better. Either way, this trip was unavoidable. It didn't make the separation any easier, and he could only hope Greg wasn't going through the same thing. It would be presumptuous of him to assume Greg was feeling his own heart break as every second ticked by, but-

No.

No, Greg loved him.

The watched the hectic travelers around him as thoughts raced through his head, tiny tornadoes of jumbled words. He never believed that someone could love him like he wanted them too, but he and Greg had gone through far too much to doubt Greg's feelings. Greg had kissed him first, believed in him, and Ryan had heard how strongly Greg reacted when Ryan was stuck after the bomb exploded. He released the air in his chest, not even realizing he'd been holding it, and told himself to calm down. Greg was coming. There was no reason he wouldn't.

He was brought back to reality when he felt Eric yawn next to him. He turned and gave Eric an amused smile.

"Tired?"

"Yeah," Eric replied, grinning sheepishly. "I was just getting used to graveyard and now I'm back on days. That's wrong, man."

"Then go ahead and crash. It's not like my shoulder isn't as comfortable as it was on the way here."

"Thanks, but I'm going to try and keep my dignity this time."

"So what are you saying? My shoulder isn't good enough for you?"

"No offense, but you're a little boney."

"_Boney?_"

"Yep. Painful to sleep on."

"You weren't complaining the first time."

"I was desperate the first time. I hadn't had my coffee."

"Or your Skittles."

"What can I say? They're delicious."

"Tell that to your poor teeth."

"Hey, I take good care of my teeth. I want them to last me until I'm too old to bother with dentures." Eric made his point clear by giving Ryan a big grin, purposely showing two rows of straight, white teeth. "See? No cavities. Besides, I believe you also took part in the Skittle consumption."

"You're my bad influence."

"A lot of people seem to say that," Eric murmured. "Not only that, but- uh oh. Calleigh looks happy."

Ryan followed Eric's gaze until it landed on the blonde, who was standing up and waving to someone behind the duo. She was wearing an excited smile, and before Ryan and Eric could even see who was receiving such undivided attention, she hopped over their row of seats and raced a few yards over.

They heard her say "Hey guys!" and turned just in time to watch as she gave Sara a big bear hug. "You're so sweet for coming! We know it's early for you."

"More like late, but we're night owls," Sara replied, returning the hug with equal force. "Besides, did you really think we weren't coming to see you off?"

"We were hoping," Yelina replied, Warrick giving her a nod as he took residence next to her. Although the rumor that men and women couldn't work together without being romantically interested in one another still reigned, it was obvious that Warrick and Yelina were strictly professional. On the other hand, you don't spend the greater part of two weeks in another person's constant presence without becoming either best friends or bitter enemies. Ryan was pleased to know that they had taken the friendly route instead, but as happy as he was to see such familiar faces, he found himself quickly searching for a familiar shock of blonde hair. He turned towards Sara, trying to hide his excitement as best he could.

"Is Greg with you?"

Sara's smile instantly faded. "I thought he came with you."

Ryan felt the disappointment grow even as he heard himself say, "I guess he's coming by himself." He wanted to smooth over the sudden worry on her face even as his heart hit the tile floor. After all, everyone expected that Greg would be the _first_ to arrive, not the last, and it was only natural for a CSI to expect the worst. Car wreck? An accident of some sort? For a moment, it didn't look like Sara was going to believe them. To emphasize his point, Ryan added, "He's perpetually late for everything."

The joke seemed to calm her enough so that she returned to conversation of her fellow co-workers, the exchange light hearted between the two CSI teams. Ryan found himself participating if only to pacify any worries while constantly glancing around, waiting for Greg to show. It was no secret that Greg could be fashionably late if he chose to be so, but would he really waste time on a day like this? Ryan fought away the nervousness.

"Is this seat free? If it isn't, I'm taking it anyway," said a voice from behind. Ryan had to smile as he turned to see David Hodges climb over the back of the bench and slide in next to Ryan. Ryan had to admire that; while most were too timid to admit they wanted something, David just walked over and asked for it. Ryan knew he needed to start working on that quality.

"Nice to see you're using your manners, Hodges," Catherine retorted, rolling her clear blue eyes. "What are you doing here anyway?"

"I was in the neighborhood," David answered. "Just thought I'd take a casual walk around the airport. I do it all the time."

Warrick scoffed at the plain sarcasm. "You came here to see them off like the rest of us, man. I know you've been trying to keep it a secret, but you've got a beating heart in there somewhere."

"Don't let word get around."

"Y'know, I just might. God knows I'm still trying to get you back for that marker."

"Trying and failing, but I applaud the attempt," David replied.

Ryan felt calmed by the familiar banter. It felt odd leaving these people; they were like family. He was half expecting it to be a dream where he could just wake up and continue on with his life in Las Vegas without bear the burden of saying goodbye. But Eric, Horatio, Calleigh, and Yelina didn't seem to have that same feeling. Ryan inwardly sighed. Maybe he was too freakishly sentimental.

Or maybe he's been living in the wrong city all these years.

Conversation began once again. Ryan participated as best he could, but his mind wandered without his permission and he frequently found himself trying to catch up with the current topic. He resisted the urge to keep checking his watch or looking around, because Greg would get there when the time was right. In the meantime, Ryan tried to enjoy the company of his friends, even as he felt precious minutes quickly tick away into eternity.

David Hodges, on the other hand, didn't accept things so easily. He knew Greg could be fashionably late, but for him not to be there when Ryan was concerned made David uncomfortable. He couldn't imagine Greg not joining them for the hell of it. There had to be a logical excuse, something that could only happen to Greg, like getting stuck in the middle of a freak blizzard in Vegas. Or maybe it was more like that Western Union commercial, where the guy swerved to avoid the puppy, but somehow hit a traveling circus and the sword swallower, showing off at the time, ended up spitting out the sword that managed to soar through the air and puncture the driver's tire.

Yeah. Something like that. David wouldn't be surprised.

But David doubted it was snowing anywhere in Nevada, and he especially doubted that any freak circus was traveling through Vegas, considering the city had enough freaks to offer as it was. For some reason, David suspected that Greg hadn't even left his house yet, and if that was the case, then something had to be done.

David calmly rose, hopped back over the seat, and headed towards the restroom. He halfway expected someone to ask where he was headed off to; luckily, they all seemed to get the hint. Of course, if they _saw_ him going towards the restroom and then _asked_ where he was going, it was quite possible David would have lost all faith in their investigative abilities. One would think that working with CSIs would be less complicated.

He tore open the bathroom door and, ignoring the men at the urinals (because he _hated_ public restrooms), dug out his cell phone before dialing Greg's number. He crossed one arm across his stomach in impatience as he stood in the corner, back facing the room, waiting as the line rang several times. What was the deal? Greg always picked up unless he was asleep. Then it took him a century.

David was startled into action when he heard a weak "_Hello?_" on the other end. He wanted to start lecturing Greg right then and there, but the tone of Greg's voice made him think twice. It sounded so… small. And despairing. And David was no good with either of those things.

"Greg," he hissed, ignoring the strange looks from men who were actually there to relieve bladders. "Where the hell are you?"

"_I- David? Hey_," Greg replied, uncertainty lacing his words. David hated the cheerlessness that sounded so foreign on Greg's tongue. He was vibrant and bright; now it sounded as though he were dead, a shell of who was. "_You're calling me? What's up?_"

"Flight four-sixty in about thirteen minutes. Please tell me you're stuck in traffic," David retorted, ignoring his better judgment. It never got him anywhere anyway.

There was a terrifying silence on the other end before Greg said, "_I see_."

"Good for you."

"_David-_''

"You're coming, right? You're on your way here."

Another pause punctured the quick conversation before a shaky sigh was heard on Greg's end. David unconsciously clutched his phone even harder, sending a bearded man a glare when said man proceeded to stare without any attempt to hide it. Some people just didn't have any manners. "Greg, what is it? Just spit it out."

"_Seeing him would only make this worse_," Greg replied. The technician could tell he was on the verge of crying. "_I can't-_''

"Can't? Can't what? Spell? Buy decent music? Drive?" David irritably questioned. "You have thirteen- make that twelve minutes to get your ass down here. Got it?"

"_David, I don't know how to say goodbye_."

"Then learn," David testily replied. "He's waiting for you."

"_You think I don't know that? My God, what do you think I've been dreading all this time? What do you think I've been trying to plan since the very beginning? I've been preparing myself for this and it's all gone to waste!_'' David could practically see Greg pacing back and forth in his living room, running a hand through spiky hair. "_I've tried everything I can dream up, but it's- when I see him, David, I won't be able to- it's easier this way._"

"Easier for who?" David fought back. "Look, I know this is hard. Bear with me. You? You love him. And Ryan? He's waiting for you to show up. I swear I'm two seconds away from dragging you here myself."

Leaving no room for argument, David snapped the phone shut before staring at the silver object in his hand and briefly wondering how he could explain to Ryan that Greg wasn't coming. Of course, he wouldn't just go out and declare that hey, your boyfriend chickened out. On the other hand, how long could Ryan hang on before spontaneously combusting? David sighed and shoved the phone back into his pocket. He never should have called. He never should have gotten involved in the entire mess; all he had wanted to know was whether Greg needed a lift or something and Ryan was too faithful to phone. And why _shouldn't_ he be faithful? The last Ryan heard, Greg's car was in perfect working condition. David was certain that if Ryan were to ask, he could fall back on the old "stuck in traffic" story and try to cover for Greg. Still, that felt wrong. Ryan didn't deserve a lie in his last few minutes before heading back home.

With a frown, he exited the men's room and hurried back towards the CSI group, finding his spot next to Ryan before trying to wear his usual bored expression. He took an inconspicuous glance at his watch before feeling Ryan shift to look towards the doorway yet again.

Ten minutes. They had ten more minutes and some perky woman was already calling seats over the intercom anyway. David ground his teeth. The voice was jarring.

The conversation froze, words colliding into each other, entire sentences hanging in mid air. The woman on the intercom was still speaking as Sara and Calleigh, Yelina and Warrick, Nick and Eric exchanged regretful expressions. It seemed as though everyone recognized this moment. They all knew that this was it: the final goodbye. They couldn't ignore their departure anymore, couldn't pretend that there were a few more days left before they had to face this.

"Well," Calleigh began, slowly standing up. She glanced towards Horatio before sighing, a small, dainty exhalation of air. "They're calling our flight."

"This is my least favorite part," Sara confessed as she stood up to give Calleigh a hug. Ryan watched this with a somber expression; it was painful to see such good friends saying goodbye. It was only made worse by Warrick and Yelina shaking hands farewell while Catherine exchanged parting words with Horatio. Ryan didn't even look towards Eric and Nick; that would only tip him over the edge. He wanted to show that he was strong and unaffected, but it was a hard thing to accomplish when it was a lie. He had been waiting for this very day. He dreaded Las Vegas in the beginning, dreaded the uncertainty, and now…

It's all I can do to leave.

"I'm sorry," David muttered next to him, seemly able to read his mind as they stood from their chairs.

"It's not your fault," Ryan replied, giving him an understanding smile. It faltered for a moment before he shot David a slightly suppliant look. "I know this isn't what you'd usually do, but… would you tell him-?"

"He already knows, Ryan," David replied. "Trust me."

Ryan took a trembling breath before nodding. "Right. You're right."

"Of course I'm right. That's just a given," the technician replied, ending the light remark with a small, apologetic smile. He wanted to say that he understood where Greg was coming from, understood why he hadn't shown. At the same time, he couldn't really excuse it. He knew Greg was either at home drowning in his own misery or breaking numerous road laws just to make it to the impending flight on time. Nonetheless, Ryan responded with a short laugh. David gave him a suspicious look.

"Are we having an emotional send-off here?" he asked. "Because it looks like you're about to hug me or something and- wait, what- Ryan, don't you _dare_-''

David made an irritated sound as Ryan's arms clasped around his neck and gave him a brief but strong hug.

"As unbelievable as this sounds, you're a great friend," Ryan said, breaking away and looking at David with intent. David kept his reply silent; he could see that Ryan was bravely keeping himself together when all he probably wanted to do was fall apart. "And I'm glad to have met you. Tell Archie I said bye and to… I don't know, live long and prosper or something."

David couldn't help the small smile that grew on his lips. "I'll make sure to relay the message."

"Good," Ryan replied, and turned for one moment longer, hoping he might spot a familiar blonde rushing through the crowds. Instead, he saw Eric and Nick say their adieus. How did Eric hide it so well? Pretend to be so unaffected? Ryan wished he could possess that same quality. Instead, Eric was laughing and cracking a joke, acting as though it wasn't tearing him apart, while Ryan was barely able to keep himself in check. Ryan's heart stilled as Eric and Nick heard the stewardess on the intercom, informing passengers that they were preparing for takeoff soon. He saw Eric sigh and tell Nick goodbye. And when Eric began walking away, Nick suddenly reached out, grabbed his wrist, and turned him around for one last kiss, a desperate farewell.

Without a word, Ryan turned away and quickly entered the covered gangplank, walking several yards until he was on the plane and then proceeded to find his seat. It was as though he were on autopilot. He slid in and stared out the window, squeezing his fists so that his hands would stop shaking. It wasn't his place to watch the send-off and he couldn't bring himself to watch anymore anyway. It _hurt_. Ryan wanted to yell, to hit something, because it wasn't supposed to be this way. He had warned himself over and over, every waking minute. Eric had cautioned him as well. Told him to be careful, and what good did that do either of them? Nothing. It didn't give them a damn thing.

Because Eric was sliding in next to him, suspiciously quiet, and Ryan didn't want to see the look on his face.

They were going to get back to Miami. They were going to forget they were ever here, and it was going to be a healthy change. It was stupid to get upset over Greg not being there; besides, there were a dozen reasons why he didn't show up. Traffic was horrible. His car could have broke down. Whatever the cause, _something_ stopped Greg from coming. Ryan knew Greg wasn't being selfish or lazy, because Greg wasn't like that. He was a good, caring person, and Ryan knew something must have had happened. He sucked in a deep, shaky breath. He prayed that Greg was all right.

Before Ryan knew it, the pilot was asking everyone to buckle his or her seat belt for takeoff. Ryan didn't want to dwell on what that meant: leaving Las Vegas, leaving Greg and David and the lab, leaving everything to go back home. He closed his eyes as the engines boosted, tried to clear his mind when he felt the plane jerk forward. He didn't particularly enjoy flying, but he felt too empty to care whether he was comfortable. He was hit with déjà-vu, because Calleigh was talking, Yelina was listening, and Horatio was reading something work-related.

Eric had fallen asleep, leaning against Ryan's shoulder and breathing softly. Ryan closed his eyes again before swallowing. This was practically a mirror image of how they'd been when they had first arrived. Of course, Ryan had been anxious then.

Now he was just miserable.

_"Goodbye? There's nothing good about saying goodbye," Greg said, giving Ryan one last kiss before the cab rolled up and drove Ryan towards the hotel._

…

Ryan couldn't say that he had missed Miami without lying, because he _hadn't_ missed his hometown. The sun was still as bright and the labs were still the same, but Eric seemed to be lapping it up. It was as if the Miami locale had given him back his drive and Eric could do little but be thrilled at the familiar territory. Ryan had to smile; his best friend had been unhappy in the middle of the desert. He was meant to live by the ocean. As a matter of fact, the only thing that had made the trip worthwhile was…

Ryan grimaced as he flopped down onto a lab chair, listlessly waiting for the print database to do its magic. It was difficult to throw oneself into work when part of your job required waiting, because waiting gave Ryan too much time to think. One miserable weekend had passed since he left Nevada, and he wasn't feeling any better.

Quite frankly, Nick was the only aspect of Las Vegas that Eric missed. But when Ryan thought of Eric, he was reminded of Nick and when he thought of Nick, he was reminded of Las Vegas.

And whenever the city's name entered his mind, one face would flash through his memory.

Greg.

Ryan had always believed that the scientist inside of him could trump whatever crazy emotion that overtook him. If he were detached for long enough, then he would inevitably forget Greg and his coffee and music and pancakes. He'd forget the tropical fish and sneakers and trail mix. Maybe he was romanticizing the entire relationship; maybe they never would have worked out if given the chance. Maybe he only _thought_ he loved Greg.

Maybe that was a load of crap.

With a frustrated sigh, Ryan sat up and tried to concentrate on his work. He had known that entering into a relationship with Greg would result in this; he didn't regret a single moment. The pain was terrible, but he could handle it.

Right?

"Honey, you look good in a lot of things," said a familiar voice from behind, "But misery isn't one of them."

Ryan jumped only slightly before turning to see Alexx Woods standing in the lab doorway, a smile on her red lips. "Now, I've got the details from Calleigh, Eric, and Horatio," she began, walking towards him in her professional black blouse and slacks. "But you've been pretty quiet when it comes to Vegas. I want the dirt."

Ryan felt his stomach revolt at the words. He loved Alexx; she was a true angel, but how was he supposed to forget Vegas if people kept bringing it up? Either way, he couldn't let her know what had happened. She would worry and pry until he lost his mind (although he honestly wouldn't have her any other way.)

"It's just another city, Alexx. I'm afraid I don't have anything interesting to share."

"Another city? Baby, it's Vegas. Sure it's a tourist trap, but all those fountains and lights? You've gotta have _something_ to tell."

"It's really nothing special," he insisted, turning back to the computer he'd been working on while hoping she'd change the subject.

Alexx snorted and Ryan sighed. Change the subject? When pigs flew. Alexx wanted to know, and she wouldn't give up until her need for details was satisfied. "Sure. Maybe the _city_ isn't anything special, but rumor is you met someone. How could you keep that from me?"

Ryan's eyes widened slightly as he turned back to face her. "How did you-?"

She waved her hand to stop him mid-sentence, as though impatient with the question. "When girls get together, things are said."

"Calleigh," Ryan groaned, tilting his head back. "She really told you?"

"She's worried," Alexx promptly replied. "And so am I. Besides, were you _hiding_ it from me?"

"Not on purpose," he mumbled when, in reality, he had hoped she would never find out. What had he been thinking? It was _Calleigh_.

"Sure, Slick. You can't expect me to believe that." She quickly grabbed a rolling chair before sitting next to Ryan, leaning in conspiringly. "Was he cute? Funny? Good in bed? You can tell me anything."

Ryan's lurched back. Yes, he and Alexx were tight and yes, he loved the woman to death. But _really_. "Alexx! What-?"

"Honey, Calleigh isn't good at keeping secrets," she interrupted, before moving back to her previous point. "Blonde, lanky, Greg. Am I hitting the mark?"

"Maybe," he muttered, realizing the looming conversation was inevitable. His only hope was a freak natural disaster, and even then, Alexx probably wouldn't cease her questioning, ignoring all tornadoes, volcanic eruptions, and tidal waves until she felt fully informed.

She let out a knowing 'hm' before nodding. "And? What was he like?"

"Alexx, I really don't-''

"Baby, I'm not giving you an option. Tell all."

Ryan sighed and glanced at the machine sorting the prints. It didn't appear as though the computer was going to save him; it sat on the table, innocently running through the database. Was there nothing that could halt this discussion?

"Fine," he replied, leaning forward and lowering his voice. "But if you let the word slip, I won't be responsible for my actions."

"Cross my heart," she replied, obviously eager to hear the details as she drug her right forefinger over her chest in an X motion. She grinned before crossing her left leg over her right and leaning closer.

Ryan glanced at the machine for the last time, praying it would beep or even explode. Anything.

"He's a CSI One in Vegas," he finally admitted, turning back to his friend. "The case was so sprawling that everyone teamed up. I got stuck with print and DNA duty."

Alexx wrinkled her nose. "Is that all? Didn't you go into the field?"

"Eventually. The point is that he had my same problem."

"CSI in the lab?"

Ryan nodded. "Exactly. I first met him while he was drumming with some test tubes."

Alexx raised an eyebrow. "Are you kidding me?"

"If only I were," Ryan replied, unable to stop the laugh that escaped his lips. "We partnered up, you know? Worked together and became friends."

"And?" she asked, anticipation lacing the query. "Did he throw you down on the evidence table and have his way with you?"

Ryan paused before sending her a look that was both baffled and embarrassed. "You kiss your children with that mouth?"

She grinned again, making her look like the human reincarnate of the Cheshire cat. "I've got to get my entertainment somewhere."

Ryan sighed and didn't even bother to glance at the still-running machine. "Actually, he kissed me in the lab. He was making coffee and-''

"Were you holding a cup at the time?"

Ryan paused but nodded at the unexpected question. "Yeah. Why?"

"You dropped it."

"I'm sorry?"

Alexx shook her head, allowing it to droop in despair. "You dropped the coffee. Baby, you're going to have to stop doing that."

Ryan had the sense enough to be annoyed. "I've only done that a few times, Alexx."

"So are you going to see him again?"

Ryan allowed his indigence to fall before forcing himself to smile. "I don't think so," he replied, trying to keep the feeling of sickness from hitting too hard. "Can we not talk about it?"

There was a sigh next to him, and Ryan knew she was morphing into her motherly mode. He didn't want that. He didn't want to remember. He didn't care how many weekends or weeks or months or years passed, because he doubted he'd ever fully forget Greg.

A warm hand touched his shoulder. "Don't you call each other? E-mail?"

"There's no point," he said, his voice strangely harsh. "It would only prolong the inevitable."

He met her concerned gaze. He didn't want to be short with her, but the memory made him sick to his stomach. He would give anything to be back in Vegas, but could he ever leave his friends? He made friends with Gil's team too, of course, but that didn't change the fact that he'd still be separated from Eric, Calleigh, Alexx, and even Horatio.

"I'm sorry," he finally said, his words soft and flat. "I didn't mean… I know you're just concerned. You and Cal both are, but I promise I'm fine. I'm just trying to forget it, is all. The sooner it's gone, the sooner I start feeling better."

Alexx sighed. "I know, baby. You love him. That's okay."

"It wasn't ever supposed to be this way," he said, closing his eyes. "I wasn't supposed to meet anyone."

"I don't think you have any say-so over that," she gently replied.

He felt a strange stinging in his eyes. "I told myself not do anything," he said, his voice raising. "I told him that I'd only be coming back here. There's no point in getting stuck in some painful cycle, right? I just kept repeating that, but I didn't listen to myself, Alexx. I blew off all common sense."

"Honey-''

The tears leaked past his eyelids, and the ones that didn't catch onto his lashes fell against his cheeks. He wiped them away impatiently. The loneliness he'd been feeling, the desolation, the loss; it began adding up, pushing and pushing until he couldn't push back anymore.

"I feel like an idiot. I _am _an idiot. Crying like I had any rationality," he muttered, but didn't fight it when Alexx scooped him into a big hug.

"Well, it's only natural," she murmured, her voice warm and comforting. "When you miss someone-''

"I _love_ him, Alexx. I love him, I miss him. I just want to forget him because I can't breathe otherwise," he confessed, words slightly muffled as he hugged her tight.

He glanced through the glass walls of the Miami-Dade crime lab. Eric was hunched over an evidence table, scrutinizing some security photos. Was he really happy? He was happy to be back home, but when he thought no one was looking, he often wore a frown that hadn't been there before. Ryan was sure he could never really know, but if Eric wanted to tell him, the younger CSI would certainly understand. He was experiencing the same feeling of emptiness; it was strong and consuming.

As if feeling Ryan's analyzing gaze, the Cuban glanced up from his job and their eyes met through the glass, as if to ask _What are we going to do?_

TBC.


End file.
